The Ideal
by Nielawen
Summary: Mirkwood’s age-long darkness has passed, but a disorderly presence sets a new unease into the hearts of the Elves—a deserted child. Many fear her, others are devoted to her; but like Legolas, they are blind to the danger she hides within.
1. Led By the Storm

The Ideal

            "A storm is coming."

            Two Elves were seated around a pit of fire beneath a growing darkness. Both had been temporarily distracted until then; though one returned to prodding at the flames, the other looked up inquiringly from a peaceful daze, and acknowledged the low declaration of a third company, standing as but a dark outline against the forest. He peered into the sky, a clearing of trees amidst the endless woodlands of Mirkwood. Mid-day was passed, dusk was upon them, and though the skies were normally filled with some pale blue light, there were now clouds gathering in the eastern realm. There was a grey darkness lying upon the edge of Mirkwood— the calm of a storm was upon them. Oronar spoke to his alerted companion near the trees, whose immense sensory awareness had his ever-roaming eyes facing the darkness of the woods, suspecting every noise and stir.

            "It will pass, Legolas. It's a mere thundershower, nothing more."

            But the fair Elf gazed on. His body was apprehensively still, but eager in waiting.

            The Elf around the flickering fire dropped the twig that he had been shifting the burning timbers with, and looked over his shoulder to the tiny encampment situated in the confined clearing. A number of their skilled units stood in the dark as pairs, glancing at the Prince, sharing precarious murmurs amongst themselves and pacing with unease. The intuitive disposition of their young Lord never failed to bring them to unrest, no matter the skill and valor they themselves possessed.  

"You are worrying them," Celahir frowned to Legolas, a suggestively flat tone in his voice.

"There's something out there," Legolas said simply. "Something dim and menacing, but I cannot see it."

Oronar and Celahir shared grim, knowing looks. Thunder rolled ahead, and for a second the sky was alight with a flash of lightning. The storm was distant, though the air was still and hot, a suffocating humidity that loomed too close to the earth for comfort. Nobody spoke, and the uncomfortable silence was filling them all with great anxiety. Lightning struck again, and its distance had lessened by many miles. A wind began to bellow in from the sky, whispering through trees and foliage, and the swaying of trees made the rustling of leaves the clearest sound around them.

Oronar leapt to his feet, being as he was the most impulsive. "A little more word from you could at least save us from the damned anxiety!" he muttered loudly while yet holding back his irritation.

The others flinched and began to stir. Legolas turned around slowly. His bright eyes flickered, challenging Oronar's returning gaze. Oronar grit his teeth and bowed his head in defeat against the authoritative stare almost immediately; Legolas turned back to the woods without a word.

Oronar, calming his short fuse, spoke up with a question shared only in thought amongst the others. "What then— do we wait for an unknown danger to come?"

Legolas sighed heavily, half-turning his body towards them while his eyes were left momentarily peeled on the shadows before him. "Nay, we must not wait." He suddenly reached for his bow from where he had left it leaning against a worn beech tree and turned to his friends and agents of his father's men. Though his face appeared stern, there was a hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. "We go find it."

Celahir rolled his eyes and sighed expectantly, hurling a small twig into the fire, but Oronar's sulking frown soon became a grin of approval as he took running after Legolas through the darkening woods with his own bow in hand. Celahir followed closely, though was not nearly as enthusiastic as his two aggressive and skilled friends. "This shall be the highlight of someone's evening, though certainly not mine."

Oronar stopped abruptly and gestured to Legolas, who was gliding swiftly through the forest bed now far ahead of them. "He knows where to find a thrill." The Elf picked up speed quickly and took after the likeness of his Prince in his swift stride, though with his heavier build he could not quite match Legolas' velocity.

The excitement had overcome the eager commander of the band of seven archers and his succeeding companion, and so Celahir gave them orders himself. All seven of the units divided in a wide line before scattering in different areas though neither disappeared from each other's sight. As they moved deeper into the forest, the darkness grew. In moments they passed below the shadow of the clouds in the sky, and everything became still.

The entire forest seemed deader than usual, but for the eagerness of Legolas and Oronar, whose passion for intensity made a great liveliness in the grim surroundings.

"A clearing!" Legolas shouted. The others watched as he picked up great speed to the very edge of the tree line. Then he stopped abruptly for reasons unknown, and Oronar was unfortunate to not be as quick in response.

Oronar grunted as he collided with his leader. The accident could have been greater but Oronar used much of his strength to slow down at the last moment. Legolas had expected it, as well, and planted his heals into the soft grass. Another thing that he did, and the others behind found peculiar, was that he spread his arms out at his sides, looking to be creating a barrier for none to pass through. It worked well, and Oronar remained leaning against him. He patted Legolas' shoulders apologetically as he regained his balance. 

"My apologies," he said with discomfiture. He took one look at the rigid Elf and then at his face, and the look made his blood flow cold. "What is the matter?"

Thunder bellowed and lightning struck spasmodically in the heart of the clouds. Rain poured down hard, and Legolas and Oronar in the thinnest area of the oak and beech forest became soaked upon their fronts. Oronar followed Legolas' eyes to the very center of the clearing as his friend's arms dropped to his side. And Oronar did nothing but blink in astonishment.

Celahir halted at Legolas' right side. He looked back and with some gladness found the units still scattered accordingly. He observed his friends, and did not speak a word until he looked ahead himself.

The bundle was small, curled up defensively and unmoving—to an unkeen eye. Legolas sprang forward. "It's a body," he called over his shoulder, and his voice shook as he spoke. Oronar followed briskly. 

Celahir gazed on with worry beginning to line his face. He raised his arm and made a signal to the archers. "Check the area!" He looked to confirm his orders were being followed by the few visible units behind him before rushing into the clearing.

Legolas was the only one kneeled in the wet grass beside the small form lying in the rain. The back of the tiny person was turned to him, and with trembling hands he reached out to roll the body the opposite way. His two friends could sense his fear.

They were unclear of what they saw, but for identifying the body as that of a human. The small child of a very young age bore a mop of soiled blonde hair, wavy in the rain, and to the length of their shoulders. Their face was smeared in blood, scratched and torn viciously. Legolas looked away painfully. Oronar placed a hand on his shoulder as Celahir kneeled beside the body's head, hardly able to classify her properly by her appearance beneath the horrid ruin upon her face.  

"She is a female." He placed his hand over her forehead. Her skin was icy and coated with blood, both of her own and that of another creature's whose blood ran dark, but he did not recoil. He looked on with great despair in his eyes. With his other hand he pressed two fingers to her tiny wrist. He nodded with relief. "And she is alive."

Legolas looked back, and there was less hurt in his eyes. "Can you tell what did this?" he asked, and though the question was, at the moment, quite impossible to reply to, Celahir answered him as gently as he could.

"That is, right now, not something we can tell."

Legolas slipped his hands beneath the body of the little girl and the soiled black garments she wore. "We have to take her out of the rain." He lifted her into his arms and pressed her to his body, hoping he could radiate some warmth to her. He studied her face sadly. "There is so much blood." He stretched the sleeve of his tunic and pressed it tenderly to random areas of her face. Some of the blood, among red and black, was wiped away with the aid of the rain, but the wounds on her face drew more.

Oronar whistled to the trees. The units responded to his call and emerged from their hiding. "We return to the camp! Keep a watchful eye and do not let anything come near this path." He walked with Legolas and Celahir back into the forest. All the while, Legolas gazed at the little girl's face, waiting for her to wake. Sometimes the image became too hard for him to bear, and he looked away only for a short second before turning back, waiting hopefully for the opening of her eyes time and time again. Longer became his guard as the journey waned by, and soon, he did not once take his eyes off her.

            Upon reaching their camp, they prepared their horses and immediately set off again through the woods northward. The going was slow, under Legolas' request. The young child stayed in his possession on the ride, and he did not want to stir her. A journey that was normally less than a full hour's length was bound to take twice the time. With that, Legolas sent ahead two units both as scouts and as messengers in which they were to cross the Forest River swiftly, and reach the Gate to bring tidings to his father of their delay.

            The rain never ceased. The heavy rumbling in the sky carried on through the current twilight and then evening, and included the frequent light storm higher in the darkness. The land grew colder with the full going of light, and concern was awoken within Legolas. The girl began to shiver, though she was not yet awake. Half conscious, she began to weep silent, painful tears, sometimes whimpering softly over the thunder and twitching in his arms. He stretched his cloak accordingly, and wrapped it around her as best as he could, but she suffered on.

            "How is she faring?" Celahir inquired upon riding up beside him.

            "She is cold. It seems that she is slowly waking," he said sternly and fretfully. His jaw went sharp, and he looked up scornfully at the intensifying storm. "These conditions do not make matters easier."

            Celahir stared at him for a long time. "She will be fine, mellonamin." [My friend]

            Legolas returned the gaze. "Can you be sure?"

            Celahir looked down at the girl. Blood, washed in rain and tears, trickled down her face, as did the hoards of pure rainwater upon her skin. It was hard to read her features— it had been difficult enough to determine her gender by her face. The poor soul. He knew she was better off to leave for dead— could they reach the Halls in enough time and manage to treat her, she would be lucky to ever look or be the same again. Legolas knew this also, but his heart was greater than theirs, Celahir realized. His love for the living and determination to find peace in a dangerous and unjust world was not just a part of his youthful ambition, but something they all had to find inspiration in. Celahir never did answer the question. There was nothing he could do to ease the pain of his friend.

            An hour passed. The mortal child wept on, as did the relentless clouds with their showers of heavy rain. Everyone was tired and grim with the grueling pace that had endured for so long. Oronar came forward, and pleaded to Legolas on behalf of the others. "The going is too slow, Milord. The rain is falling harder, and the child grows weaker. We're all spent. Haven't we endeavored in these conditions long enough?"

            Legolas wiped at his drenched eyes, blinking away what sight-obscuring drops he could with growing bitterness of the merciless storm. He nodded solidly. "Continue at my pace." He issued forth his steed to a gallop, and the hooves of all their grand horses thundered louder than the storm in the muddy ground.

            The Forest River gleamed ahead, and spirits were lifted high amongst the company, though Legolas was the happiest to return home from the heartland. They sped across the great bridge that spanned over the river, chanting merrily and awaking the stillness of night. The rain had swelled down at last to barely visible droplets that couldn't even be felt, and the only evidence of it still enduring from the gloom above was seen in the river's water, ripples of the plenty dripping along the surface.

            They came to the grand hill surrounded by a wall of large trees in which stood the Elven King's Gate, and where the great palace hall was delved deep within the mound. Two guards stood erect and alert at its great stone doors, known by many for its enchanted qualities. They bowed their heads in greeting, hands upon their breasts, as Legolas, Oronar, Celahir, and their five cavalry archers proceeded along the outside trail around the hillside to the stables in back. As the company disappeared, the two guards passed through the doors having completed their duty of waiting for the their safe arrival.

            The area in which they rode through was a place where the tall oak and wide beech grew thick in numbers and made a natural wall of worthy protection. The path they rode was very narrow with room enough for only a single rider at a time. Because of the hill's great size, the path was nearly equal in circumference, so the going took a fair bit of time, but everyone became more cheerful and talkative as their horses trudged along in single file.

            Legolas, being at the head of the line, was distant and cut off from conversation, but he was not at all alone.

            The fair child in his arms was at peace, looking to be sleeping in his cloak. He felt a sensation of triumph build within him, and with a glad smile, he began to hum softly a tune well known in his land.

            The melody was graceful and soothing, and the influence of music over her was first seen at this time. Her breathing became steadier than it had ever been. She shifted slowly, and in response to his fair voice was the hint of a smile.

            Oronar looked towards the far East. "Ah, more rain is yet to come, it looks. Take her indoors, Legolas. We will stable your horse and unload."

            "I will come with." They stopped in the middle of the path and dismounted. Celahir helped Legolas and the child down from his white steed. "I know of a suitable place to settle her in, unless your father has a better idea."

            "We know how he deals with strangers," Legolas replied with the hint of a grin. Oronar, before walking off with the two horses and followed by the five archers, chuckled heartily, as did Celahir, for they all knew of the great suspicion of King Thranduil, for it had always been that he was never trusting of unfamiliar folk. The people of Mirkwood were much like that, as well, but the three of them were among the very few who were welcoming. The answer to that was reasonable enough for Mirkwood's people— they were young, spoiled, and sheltered from reality. Though Legolas was truly the only one of royalty amongst them, Celahir and Oronar, who tended to take after his own father in sternness, had duties of their own that earned them high place in the courts.

            At that moment came one of the two messengers Legolas had sent forth with news. Around the bend he came, quick-footed and frantic.

            "Something's the matter," Celahir said leaning into Legolas, frowning knowingly.

            The archer bowed his head briefly. "I have received word from our people. The King has gone, having left for Rivendell early this afternoon."

            Celahir gave Legolas an inquiring look. "I never knew," Legolas muttered grimly. He glanced down at the girl cradled comfortably in his arms and pressed to his damp front. "When is my father to return then?"

            "I was not informed." The archer regarded Legolas timidly. "If his presence is urgently needed, I can—"

            "No!"

            Legolas and the archer looked sharply at Celahir, who cleared his throat, and made a quick recovery from his abruptness. 

            "What I mean… No, we do not need him. Not at the moment." He gave Legolas a pointive and desperate look. "Inside…?"

            Legolas grinned. "Let's."

            The great cave of Mirkwood— palace to the King and stronghold to the people— was a lively underground place, particularly at night, where it was more dazzled with light than at any other time. It was incredibly large and wholesome. There were countless halls that branched off from the main cave, with several rooms situated in each of those smaller halls. It was quite a grand and baffling maze to those unfamiliar with its identical corridors. Legolas and Celahir brought the young child to a guest chamber, more pleasing to the eye than what a stranger was usually supposed to be assigned to. There they laid her to rest upon a large bed quilted with pale cream satin and embroidered with green vines and beech trees, his people's favorite. The quilt even resembled the dark, glossy leaves of that particular tree with the use of a fabric shinier and more delicate than that of satin itself.

            "I will try to treat her in whatever ways I can," Celahir explained and began to examine her arms and legs.

            He was a healer, and incredibly skilled at what he did. Though he was young— and he was younger than both Oronar, the eldest of all three, and Legolas— he was a great asset to Thranduil and matched the skills of the old healers. Celahir was gentle and his sympathy for the hurt was as great as it was within Legolas. Being that they shared such a likeness, Celahir was his teacher of developing the skill, and Legolas was an excellent student, even though his sincere attention went to his expertise in combat.

            Celahir bent over the child's body. He murmured to himself in thought as he observed, taking notes in his mind. He took her tiny arm in his hands and gingerly turned it to inspect her tender inner forearm. Two great gashes were slashed over her soft skin; the bleeding had stopped though the blood was still present, dried and scabbed. He quickly turned it over, wishing to forget he had seen it. He looked up and saw Legolas' eyes filled with heavy consternation.

            "I will watch her through the night. Get some rest, and you may see her in the morning." He smiled, though it was forced. "First thing."

            Legolas took a long look at the child. Celahir read his mind.

            "Let us hope she did not suffer as much as her wounds show."

            Legolas sighed, lips pursed grievingly and chiseled jaw pressed tensely. "I should see what my father has left in my care." He turned sharply and was gone.

             A/N: That disclaimer business sort of gets on my nerves, and I happen to have a new little twist to it— if you have nothing better to do than think that a 15 year old is claiming ownership over the greatest story ever created, you really need to get your sh*t straightened out. ^_^ I truly am a happy girl. Review and make me happier!

            Note that I have gone back and edited the original copy of this story. Changes have been made, yet I will be happier than ever to accept constructive criticism and any grammatical/spelling errors still to be found! ^_~


	2. Inspiration

            Something was not right. 

            Legolas sat up with great haste from rest, quicker than an eye could catch. He sat very still and silent, listening with his excellent senses. The halls beyond the door of his room were dead quiet. Passed the walls he even heard the chirping of birds, whose song was a magical melody of first light. He tilted his head and strained to hear more, drew back his covers, and approached the door stealthily. He placed his ear against the smooth oak panel.

            There he heard a stir— a loud thump from down the elevated hall, and also what sounded to be the shattering of glass. And a curse that sounded to have come from only Celahir himself.

            Furrowing his brows, he opened the door. The corridor remained silent, the bright colored walls illuminated with morning light. He stepped out of his room, feeling a cool breeze against his bare chest as he proceeded down the hall.

"…Rhach ha (Curse it)…" Celahir's voice was fairly loud in the hushed atmosphere. Then came laughter. Childish giggling. "—No! Do not— Stay off there! Come down!" He voice faded again as something else— something steel and solid— crashed upon the floor. "Tampa sii'!" [stop now!]

"Celahir?" Legolas called, puzzled and uncertain. He moved into a brisk jog, winding through different passages until he was before the end of the hall, and standing before an open doorway.

Celahir poked his head out only briefly. His eyes were dark and lined under the skin. He looked to have aged 10,000 years overnight. Smeared blotches of a greenish-brown substance soiled his beige tunic, fair face, and silvery hair. Legolas knew very well it was an ointment.

"Celahir!" he cried loudly. "What is this? Is it your sincere intention to make these walls collapse?"

Celahir regained control of his breath. A metallic smash came from within the room, and he flinched. "It awoke," he whispered in despair.

Legolas' face went from angered to expressionless to strangely distorted.  "'_It_'? Mani marte? Pedo!" [What happened? Speak!]

Celahir shook his head in exasperation and exhaustion. "I do not know, but if what we brought home with us was _human_, then Lúthien was mad!" He disappeared inside, and Legolas followed hastily.

His bare foot stepped in a puddle of water, and he drew back unexpectedly. Then he looked up, and gaped in astonishment at the disaster zone that had once been a bedroom fit for nobility.

The splendid bed sheets were torn from the body of the frame, piled on the floor in a wrinkled heap. Several candlesticks upon the dark oak dressers were empty, having only half a candle or none at all, or had fallen upon the ground. A tiny basin was upturned at the foot of the bed, and from there water drenched the finely woven rug and earthly tiled floor. Countless towels and cloths were scattered, hanging from chandeliers or caught upon a bedpost here and there.

Legolas burned with frustration, and managed to grasp but a few incredulous words. "Oh no," he murmured with a grumble.

At that moment, from behind an upturned chair, scurried forth a little girl, donning a simple beige tunic that was clearly oversized and wearing a gleeful grin from ear to ear. She squealed and ran hastily, but realizing too late she was heading for Legolas head on. 

She collided into him, ramming into his long legs, and fell back clumsily. For a moment there was no laughter, and no sound at all, as the little girl with golden blonde curls pulled herself onto her elbows and stood up. Then, she giggled in spite of herself before scurrying off and diving headlong into the pillows upon the bed.

Legolas was speechless.

"I tried to give her a bath," Celahir stated carefully. He made a face. "She had other ideas."

Legolas turned his head sharply in his direction. "_That _iswhat I brought home?"

Celahir smiled bitterly and gave a single nod of his head. They said nothing to each other for the longest time. The girl jumped upon the bed, laughing merrily, and showed no sign of weariness from her disastrous tirade. "What do we do with it?" Celahir finally asked.

Legolas turned and left the doorway. "How should I know? Why should I even care? I've never cared for a child in my life."

Behind him came a despaired cry. He looked over his shoulder, and watched as the girl hurried off the bed and ran to him with arms outstretched. Her round eyes were saddened, almost fearful, and there was no longer a smile lighting her round face. "Dúnedhel! Dúnedhel!" She stood at his feet, reaching up to him on tiptoes with her small, chubby hands, clenching and unclenching as if she were grasping thin air. She began to weep.

"Don't let her cry! Pick her up! Pick her up!" Celahir pleaded.

Legolas bent down and lifted her up. Her features became pleasant, beneath the many terrible scars that were stitched and on the mend— one slash in particular across her cheek looked to be healing the slowest. She smiled, and her green eyes, rich like the leaves of the beech tree, glittered happily. Meanwhile, he studied her with intrigue. "Did I hear her correctly?" he asked Celahir in a soft voice. "Did she call me _elf of Beleriand_? That was our tongue she spoke in, unless I heard wrong, as well."

"She did." Celahir crossed his arms over his chest, slightly astonished and amused. "Fascinating. What do you think that means?"

Legolas considered her carefully. The small girl, very young, was following his eyes wherever they went, and was now gazing into his. "It cannot mean very much. She must be mimicking from somewhere. I would doubt she knows to distinguish me from the two kinds." 

Celahir laughed. "Well, you cannot really expect a mortal toddler to know the difference between a Noldor and Sindar."

"Hene naa _gimri_," [she is _listening_] Legolas hissed meaningfully, emphasizing his words into a mutter

"She is not a spy," Celahir said dully.

Legolas regarded him with a cold look. "Then you do not know the full extent of espionage and its way of going about." He fastened her into his left arm and strode down the hall, feeling slightly sheepish with knowing his foolish defiance.

Celahir chuckled as he followed. "You _are_ your father's son, I suppose. Where are we taking her?"

"Somewhere…suitable. We have a few important details to take into consideration before we do anything further."

            The morning sun was very warm and there was a faint wind that allowed for a refreshing escape from the heat. The previous night's rain left the forest and tiny groves belonging to the people fresh and fragrant, and turned all the vegetation green so that the land of Mirkwood's people was more splendid and alive than it had been before the rainfall.

            Legolas and Celahir strode through the tall beeches and around the land settlements of the Elves, the child not far behind. She took brisk, uneven steps, often proceeding into a run, just to keep pace with the long strides of the two much taller Elves, with the exception of Celahir who was notably shorter for an Elf. But she never complained, nor did she speak at all.

            They crossed paths with a fair Elf maiden holding a large basket in her arms, filled to the rim with four types of vegetables, all vibrant in healthy color and ideal in form. Legolas spoke a few words of brief greeting, and with a smile from the young lady, he reached for a large leaf of lettuce from a great bulk at the peak of the load. They followed him to a tiny spring running down-hill, one like those often seen engineered but seldom among the naturally made. The clear forest water trickled over flat, jagged rocks surfaced by green ferns, and splashed down into a small pool. Legolas leaned in and let the falling water rinse the green leaf.

            Celahir didn't understand. "Our food is clean."

            "Of course it's clean, and certainly well enough as it is— to us, at least." He shook the lettuce piece, and water droplets flew in all directions. Telling from the low giggle behind them, they guessed, without looking, that the child had taken several to the eye. "But she is not immune to whatever we may not take notice of." He handed it to her, and she took it gladly, munching unyieldingly as they went along.

            Celahir grinned. "You are starting to think far too much like me."

            They ventured further out until they approached the far eastern side of the Gate, less than a mile from the Forest River's shore. A massive boulder was perched in the hardy earth, and all around it was the wispy shadows of the trees above. The sun shone, untouched, upon the great rock.

            "What are we here for?" Celahir asked curiously. He knew Legolas was not a fool and always had purpose to his actions.

            Legolas indicated to the girl, who had begun to climb the smooth edge of the boulder on her own in bare feet. He lifted her up after she had struggled for a bit, and she sat silently, gazing all around her at the life below, amongst, and above the grand trees.

            "You have not told me yet how her health is."

            "She is very healthy," Celahir said, now beginning to show his uncertainty. "That is what you want to ask me?"

            "I simply want you to make some detailed observations for me. For us. We need to know what we are faced with here."

            Celahir chuckled. "A child! Just a child, I assure you!"

            "How old is she? Where does she come from? Why was she wounded and what assailed her?" Legolas began shooting out questions with heavy exasperation writhed in his voice. "Or any more charming characteristics, perhaps? Forgive me, I'm only _curious_."

            Celahir sighed. "No need to be brash." He smiled warmly at the child, and her face lit up in response. 

            "Maer arad (Good day)," he said brightly. Legolas watched.

            "Hello, Dúnedhel," she replied cheerfully, her high voice full of enthusiasm. She smiled, and chewed on the lettuce.

            Celahir glanced at Legolas triumphantly. "My name is Celahir, and my friend, Legolas." They waited.

            "Lhim!(fish)" she chirped spontaneously, and once again, continued munching. Clearly she had heard the splashing of the river not far off.

            Celahir found her childish humor splendid, but Legolas was itching with impatience. "Do you have a name?" he asked sternly, leaning over her.

            She became still beneath his shadow of intimidation. She shrugged shyly.

            "This is not an interrogation," Celahir whispered to him.

            "We will get no where by your methods." He squatted against a protruding edge of the rock, and stayed at eye level with her. She responded with showing a little more ease. "Where is your family? Your mother?"

            She gazed into his eyes blankly, and once again, shrugged.

            Legolas stood tall with troubled eyes. "A child who does not know their mother is as much without one."

            "She's better off," Celahir said grudgingly. "Who leaves a toddler in the woods? Wounded!" His eyes lit up in recollection. "I completely forgot. It was Orc's blood I found on her skin, mixed with that of her own."

            Legolas nodded. "Had my thoughts been clear, I should've known that above other things. Those foul creatures never stop their sick tirades." He bent low again. "How old are you?"

            The little girl held up her right hand, and began to uncurl one finger at a time. She counted up to two, three, then stopped at four. She smiled proudly and lifted her hand with those of her pudgy fingers raised. "Four!" 

            "Four," Legolas repeated, and nodded with a slight smile. "And where are you from?"

            She stared off towards the trees, treading deep into thought. When she looked back, there was the same blank and confused glimmer in her emerald eyes. "I don't know." She bowed her head, and the two Elves felt the great sadness and confusion emanating from her. 

            Legolas gave Celahir a meaningful look. He held out his hand to her. "Come."

            She accepted his hand shyly and trotted along beside him as they all walked together. 

            "You will be given a name of the Elves, and if you wish to accept it, then it shall do until you recall your real name. How would you like that?"

            "Can I pick one?" she asked hopefully, and though the question had remained unanswered, she was excited nonetheless.

            "What would you like?"

            She was silent. Then, she giggled. "Maybe you pick."

            Legolas gazed at her for the longest time as if it were a test, yet the child was curiously undaunted by his intensity. Eye to eye they stared— his purpose lying in a very deep search into the depth of her soulful gaze; her purpose being none other than to imitate. She began to squint until her grin became too broad to contain, and in turn he, too, smiled. "Niélawen."

            Celahir looked at him sharply and inquisitively. "My mother's name?" He looked down at the child to be named after his loving mother, who was far gone from their presence and the very shores of the West. The girl was now giggling and blushing, and her eyes were still twinkling cheerily. Celahir nodded acceptingly as if in reminiscence, and he saw the very likeness of joy itself within her bright and eager face. "It will do well."

            She looked up at them both, her smile beginning to wane as she wondered about their thoughts that were oblivious to her.

            _Niélawen_.

            "Why?" she asked suddenly, and her eyes grew wide as she studied them both.

            Legolas crouched beside her. "It has a profound meaning that lies not in the name itself, but in its last possessor." He made sure she understood before meeting Celahir's eyes with contentment. "That is an exceptional name I have given you. I hope you like it."

            She gave a small, coy smirk as she nodded slowly and watched Legolas get to his feet, his great height causing him to tower over her. She stared up at him with wonder— though young, she was outstandingly bright enough to understand his meaningful words, and then afterward using her previously attained knowledge of the superiority of the Elvish race, she grasped a breathtaking image in her mind.

            Of beauty, brilliance, and great splendor in all mindful aspects known to the living— even to the great Valar of which she knew little, though enough, of. And she found herself able to picture all these and more within her own self, even if it took a few years to grow into them.

            She smiled absentmindedly at the fair beings that loomed above her. 

            She could be just like them…


	3. Promises

            The long dining table of well-crafted oak was filled by rows of seats, still crowded without King Thranduil and the following presences of his councilors. Those that were there sat under the great domed roof, fair faces and hair alike grandly illuminated by candlelight. 

            Oronar was among the many, as his father was held under political status that earned them both an honorable position next to the son of the King, but rarely ever at Thranduil's side, for Oronar's father dealt with military affairs. His job and real concern was not to follow the King to the most majestic and serene places of the earth, but to be in Mirkwood.

            Celahir tagged along side his elder brother who was named Celaeglin. He was Legolas' traveling companion and aid, a wise advisor when it was up to Legolas to send word to allies when times were troubled and Thranduil had to remain in Rhovanion to deal with them himself for the time being. Celahir's brother was tall, unlike himself who was among the shortest of Elf-kind, and long-faced with striking, solemn eyes of grey and hair as silvery-gold as Celahir's.

            Anyone who was anybody— and still in Mirkwood— was there; except for Legolas, noted for being randomly late when he was not under the rules of his father. They spoke amongst themselves and drank their wine for a good duration of time expected for dining, but the only one who took real notice of the delay due to Legolas' tardiness was Celahir, anxiously waiting for an entrance that would send them all into shocked silence. None but him, Oronar, and the archers— not present, of course— knew of the girl born to Men, and adopted beneath their roof.

            Footsteps echoed in the halls and a dim shape lurked in the backdrop of shadows beneath a tunnel of arches. Legolas walked calmly in the open room, poised and composed and grand as he always was. He moved to the table, and the orange glow brought light to his figure, and that of another.

            A great hush suddenly fell upon the table. Celahir shut his eyes and looked away knowingly, giving Oronar an uncertain look from across the table. The little person at his side walked boldly, though timidly, beneath all the hard piercing and curious eyes. Her head dragged low and her shoulders rose, and she moved closer to the security of the Elf, clasping her hands around two fingers much larger than her own.

            Whispers breathed softly in the mute hall. Legolas took his seat at the head of the table, and he helped Niélawen to a chair of her own at his side— an awkward sight it was to have double the seating at the most dignified place at the table. He spoke into her ear words inaudible to the others, and she relaxed.

            Celahir spoke up in a light voice. "She can sit among us if she wishes." By this he only did what came natural by attempting to settle the unease of a custom broken.

            "The thought could only be from you, Celahir. As for the rest of you," he continued with a vague tone, "you make her indecently uncomfortable." His eyes flickered. "Quit what you are doing."

            The silver platters were carried in and placed upon the table. The Elves served themselves grimly. Celahir and Oronar noticed most of them staring at Niélawen from the corners of their eyes at random moments, undoubtedly disturbed by her brutal facial scars and those that could be seen on her small wrists and hands. Niélawen gasped excitedly and grabbed for the first serving of leafy greens.

            Legolas called for the wine. "The Orcs are venturing from the North and West and back into our lands. A small number of us have found some interesting things, haven't we?"

Everyone glanced at Celahir and Oronar without a word, all of them timid toward speaking up in case it was inappropriate to do so. Oronar said nothing, but Celahir gave a small nod, pretending to be distracted by his meal.

"Interesting things indeed," Legolas murmured to himself, daunting the others with his low, wistful manner of speech. "You all seem to think so as well, despite not witnessing all that was to see for yourselves." He poured the rich wine into his glass, and swallowed half of it casually. "Take a closer look, my friends. She is here to stay."

Someone fumbled with a utensil and it clattered against the silverware, and a few others cleared their throats. The remaining whispered discreetly to one another in confusion or ill intent. Oronar looked outrageously at Legolas, his face speaking words he dared not mutter. Celahir leaned in towards Legolas. 

"When was this decided?"

"Recently."

Celahir pushed closer to Legolas, leaning into his brother, who scowled under his breath and pulled back from the table, deciding to wait out their conversation. "Surely it isn't even up to you to make that decision! Don't be foolish!" he hissed carefully through his teeth.

"Why not?" Legolas said, and his stern voice carried over the others'. They all grew silent. "She deserves some courtesy from us, and if we can give her far more than that, why shouldn't we? Someone needs to have a heart, why do we need to rely on my father?" Meanwhile, Niélawen looked up from her meal and looked about inquiringly, sensing a disturbance but not understanding the source. "I'm not here to debate with the rest of you. Not of such likes."

"This is ludicrous!" cried out the oldest of Mirkwood's council.

"We don't know where she came from!" stated another. 

"And what nuisance she brings!"

Many voices started to cry out at once, speaking things Legolas did not like to hear. The steel-cold anger was beginning to show in his face, but most of all in the raging blue fire in his eyes. The remarks did not cease.

"… Just _look_ at her!"

"… She doesn't belong here… You cannot make her belong among us!…"

"… Leave her in the wild where she came from!…"

He finally hurled his fist against the table. Niélawen jumped as her plate rattled, and the rest were startled into silence. "_I_ have made the decision!" He pressed his teeth firmly and furiously, sharpening his already distinct jaw line. "Leave— now— if you cannot stand to sit at the same table as her. I will not miss you!" He slowly pulled himself back into his seat. "Go on if you must. You are, after all, allowed to disagree with me. But I promise you all that if you walk away from this table, you will regret what you have done when she can stand with more esteem than the rest of you."

A large number got to their feet slowly but surely. Celahir and Celaeglin were among those that remained, and they watched sadly as Oronar followed his father from the room. Once an image of strength and security, he regarded his Prince and his loyal friend with lessened certainty, appearing small and trite. "There is nothing that can be promised from her being here. She will not remain for long."

Legolas' eyes were challenging. "I will swear it on my life. And if you happen to be worth staying yourself, you may see what a daughter of Men can do. After all, isn't that what it is all about, _mellon_?" [friend] This title rolled off his tongue with more sourness than sincerity.  

Oronar held his chin high and indignantly. He strode off without a word.

Celahir looked around him, smiling gratefully to the remaining and thanking them quietly on behalf of the unspeaking Legolas. "What now?"

Legolas gazed after the last departing member of the table silently momentarily and with sudden disappointment. He weaved the neck of his wine glass between his fingers, and murmured with disarray and absence, "When did we ever come to believe it best not to trust the goodness of Men… Where is it that our people faltered?" He chewed the inner part of his cheek, tapping the base of his glass gently against the fine oak surface.

Niélawen tugged at his shirt. "I'm thirsty."

Legolas did not respond immediately, but then he took hold of the fine bottle of wine and poured her a glass almost to the rim.

Niélawen looked over it and sniffed before taking a plentiful gulp. Her eyes glittered, and her faced twisted sourly, and she let out a brief cough. She looked at the beverage, smacked her lips, and drank some more. All those at the table looked at him skeptically.

"It's good for her." He swallowed his own in a single gulp.

            Legolas gently closed the chamber doors behind him. Niélawen slept soundly in her permanent accommodation, tidied up and back to a suitable state. Candles lit his way up the sloped hall, and though he felt obligated to affirm the state of security further through the stronghold and the settlement beyond, he was ready to lock himself within his room— escape from the rest of the world and lie without trouble.

            Celahir rounded the corner as he himself approached it. They both stopped instantly.

            "I sang her to sleep," Legolas said softly. "But not for very long. I knew the wine would do its part."

            Celahir gave a half-hearted smile. They walked side by side up the hall the way he had originally came. "You put up a sensible fight. I am sorry if I doubted you."

            "Sensible?" Legolas asked unsurely. "I made a fine deal of enemies, didn't I? My father will have a handful to deal with upon returning."

            "We were wrong about Oronar. We were both very wrong, to think we could make them all understand and see the situation as we do." He smiled admirably. "Well, the way _you _do. I do not know where I stand in all this."

            "By me, whether or not your opinions are clear. You don't know how to betray. That is why I trust you, with my life… and hers." He stopped at his room door. "It is a challenge now, to see how long she will last inside these walls. It worries me heavily to wait for my father's return." He lifted his chin. "But I do not regret what I have chosen. Not any of it."

            Celahir nodded. "You have always stayed true to your word. Rest easy tonight, I will keep a watch on her."

            Legolas said his thanks in a low voice and entered his room, dimly lit by candles along the walls. 

            "Legolas."

            He looked back.

            "She is a special child. I think she is worth it."

            Legolas did not speak, nor respond in any other way, but it was not as though the words were overlooked. Only when his door had closed and he was behind secure walls did he nod in self-assurance, truly believing the words for himself. It was true. She was special, but despite having hardly shown any superiority, he was certain that all of Mirkwood would see great things from her.

            Legolas brushed Turgon's thick white and grey-speckled mane, almost pure enough to reflect the rays of the ascending sun. His horse was large, strong, and proud like his master, and his obedience was unmatched by the other steeds, along with a remarkable personality came from many years of dedicated care from the Elf prince. 

            He lifted himself onto Turgon's bare back and took the rein in his hand. Turgon was a free loving horse, but he was constantly set on giving his rider some means of control. Oronar and Celahir both found much humor in it, thinking Turgon's considerate qualities made him more human than animal.

            "Legolas! Legolas!" a small, clear voice chirped from the stables. Niélawen bounded out from the sun's shadow and sprang into the light. The smile upon her round face rose from ear to ear, and she waved her arms excitedly. Celahir walked at her heals.

            "Aur (Morning), Niélawen," Legolas said with an adequate greeting. "How did you sleep, little one?"

            She hesitated. "Um… fine?"

            "'Fine?'" He raised a brow to Celahir.

            "A nightmare, late last night. Post-traumatic, I suppose."

            She giggled. "Big words, Cehee."

            Legolas suddenly burst into incredulous laughter which ceased as spontaneously as it had begun. "What is _this_?"

            Celahir glared, and muttered to him, "Wait until she finds a name for you. Anyway, I am leaving her in your care. Your father is expected home soon, and I presently regret shedding some pity on you by completing your unfinished duties."

            "Thank you, Celahir, but—"

            "She will not get in the way," he said, mildly irritated. "She told me how much she enjoys riding with you."

            Legolas stared silently. "You interrupted me."

            Celahir made the fake attempt of a smile. "And proud I am." He walked off and waved once as he vanished around the corner of the long stable.

            Legolas stared down from his horse where Niélawen caressed Turgon's strong front legs. Turgon made an interesting thrumming noise in the back of his throat that was much like a cat's purr.

            "You like horses, Niélawen?"

            "Uh-huh!" She stared up at him with her large, pleading eyes. "Can I come riding?"

            Legolas kicked off Turgon's back and landed beside her. He wrapped his hands around her tiny body and lifted her carefully onto the high part of the steed's back. "Turgon is a hard rider. He is not used to small and fragile luggage like yourself."

            As if she had not heard a single word, she bounced energetically atop Turgon's back, clapping her hands, smiling wide, though anxiously bracing herself for a thrilling ride. "Giddy up, horsey!"

            He mumbled uncertainly in the back of his throat, but it was little more than an anxious consideration. Once he got on, he grabbed the harness and pulled her close. "Noro, Turgon."

            The forest rushed by them in a torrent of bright colors and humid winds. The sky still held a warm glow in the East, but the West had grown alight in full sprung daylight. Niélawen was speechless and exhilarated by the ride. Legolas brought her to many places she had never dreamed of before. Their route brought them Southbound, and for hours they rode nearer and nearer to the Mountains of Mirkwood. 

They came to a break in the woods and there they rested at last, giving the tireless Turgon a short break for Niélawen's sake, in case the ride had been overwhelming. The child played in the hot springs amidst the most wondrous place beneath the shadow of the rocky, bush-blanketed Mountains. 

            Legolas was at peace. The growing distance away from home took off a great load from his mind, and he enjoyed himself that morning, lying in the sun against a hill and watching the young toddler dangle her feet in the warm pool. 

            He kept a constant eye on her as often as he could spare. He could not help but notice what a likeness she could take of the Silvan elves. She possessed an aura of exquisite joy and liveliness even an Elvish child could not compare with. How could she never belong? He watched her brush her hands through the green blades of grass while she splashed along the surface of the water. Her neck-length hair was platinum even without the sun beating down on her mop of soft curls and illuminating them to gold, and her gently humming voice carried harmoniously against the wind, very much a tune of nature's breath, itself— just like the natural gift his kind possessed. 

            She brought him to peace.

            He closed his eyes and opened up all his other senses to the world full of life around him. Birds sang in the distance, high above in the treetops. The grass hissed softly in the breeze. And then came a deep splash.

            He sprang up. Niélawen was nowhere to be seen, and knowing better, he rushed to the edge where she had just been, and where the spring sat two feet below ground level. He kneeled at the edge.

            He felt no panic, yet there was worry racing through his mind as he drove his arm into the water and felt around the dark space for her. Bubbles rose to the surface, and he located her small form where the light shone down into the water from the trees. He grabbed her yellow tunic and hauled her from the water.

            She burst into deep, hysterical laughter, sopping wet in the grass and gasping for air. She clapped her hands, her eyes still wide from the adrenaline rush. "Again!" Her voice bubbled in laughter, and she swallowed before chiming once more, "Again, again!"

            "No not 'again'!" he exclaimed incredulously.

            "Water's fun!"

            "Yes, just like I am," he retorted, sarcasm writhed in his voice. He removed his light broadcloth shirt and wrapped it around her. "I do not like your idea of fun, especially when it leaves me shirtless."

            She wrapped her arms around his firm upper body. "You're warm!"

            "Living beings happen to be that way. Let go, you're getting me wet."

            "What does 'Legolas' mean?" she inquired randomly.

            He unlatched her arms, picked her up, and sat her upon the hill where he had been. "It does not matter."

            "It matters to me." Her eyes twinkled as she smiled widely, showing small, white teeth.

            He shook his head in disbelief at her. "You're implausible. Do you think you can charm me into humiliation?" He waved an accusing finger at her. "I know what ideas flood your bored mind."

            She grabbed her feet, shrugged guiltlessly, and with a grin began to rock back and forth atop the small mound. 

            He strode to a tiny waterfall running from the rising rock form amidst the green clearing, and cupped his hand beneath the running liquid. When he looked back, Niélawen was waving her hands in the air around her, shoeing at a pestering fly. He shook his head, and drank.

            "I suppose we should start back North."

            "Aw, I want to stay here!"

            Legolas walked back toward her, and held out his hand for her to take. "Up!"

            She pouted and stood with resent. She tread behind him as he lead her to where Turgon grazed in the trees. Her hands still slapped at the air.

            "What's the matter?"

            She made a face and breathed out heavily. "Buggy!" Her arms waved around furiously.

            He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned, thoroughly amused at her slow reflexes. He watched her as she grit her teeth, watched as her patience grew thin. And then it was all too suddenly at an end.

            His grin was washed from his face. He had caught but a simple glimpse of it, and now she stood before him, satisfied, holding in front of her a tight fist. She opened her palm, and out dropped the pestering fly, compressed cleanly to its death. 

            She smiled, pleased, and reached up to him to be lifted onto the horse. He just stared. It may have been an act that he could have certainly accomplished himself, but from her it was strange. Disturbing. No toddler had reflexes that keen.

            She grabbed at him impatiently. "Pick me _up_!"

            Turgon stirred uneasily, sensing his rider's discomfort. Legolas finally took her in his hands and sat her on Turgon's back. She cooed cheerfully, clasping the reins and making dramatic noises in what seemed like mockery of the rider.

            Deep thrumming in the earth vibrated below his feet. The sound of many horse-feet pounded against the ground, nearing from the West. Niélawen looked towards that way simultaneously as Legolas did.

            Ten fair riders on grand horses appeared from around the mountain slope. A white horse lead the riders into the clearing and stopped a small distance from Legolas to the side of Turgon.

            A tall, handsome Elf donning a brown velvet tunic stepped off his horse and walked to Legolas. And suddenly he halted. His blue eyes of matching vibrancy as Legolas' flickered, and he moved forward slowly into the shade of the forest, his long golden hair, plaited at the temples, shone no longer. 

            "Legolas," he spoke in a deep, clear voice, "What is this?" He took a glance at Legolas, without his tunic, standing beside a child who was comfortably steadied on Turgon, wearing his upper garment.

Legolas sighed in despair. He had no words to excuse his state, or to ease his discomfort. Finally, the time in which he had dreaded for a night and day had come. "Welcome back, father."

            "We have no place for her!"

            Legolas took a deep breath. "I have already arranged lodging for her."

            Thranduil turned on his son sharply. "Do you think that is what the issue is?" he hissed. "What I mean is that she doesn't _belong_ here! For the love of Elbereth, what would… _possess_ you to think you could take in an orphaned mortal in such a state?"

            "Was I to leave her wounded in the forest by herself? I'm not an animal!"

            Their voices could be heard throughout the underground cavern. They shouted bitterly and tirelessly at each other from the main hall, the throne chamber, where the walls were high and space was plentiful and their yells carried ten times louder throughout.

            "You're not an animal, but you're rash, and stubborn! Where was your head?"

            Legolas clenched his teeth. "Some of us, father, have the advantage of using our hearts, not our heads. Yet what makes you think I was not running all the possibilities through my mind while taking pity on her? Being too caught up in sense all the time can cause you to lack this thing called 'mercy'." He was silent. "Niélawen can stay."

            Thranduil collapsed in his throne and he buried his face in his right hand. "I do not have the time to raise a child." He raised a finger haltingly. "And you do not have the skills."

            "And what if I wish to try?"

            "You cannot simply _try_! Raising a child is a life-long commitment. You make one error and it backfires tenfold!" He shook his head. "No, this is not possible."

            "I can do this on my own."

            "She is not staying!" Thranduil bellowed, standing twice his height beneath the shadow of his anger. "Because mortals are weak. They die. Do not bring the damned hurt to yourself!"

            One of the two tall doors slid open, and in ran Niélawen. Her face was soaked in tears, and more still trickled from her eyes. She wept mournfully and clung to Legolas. He stared down at her sadly, but did not look his father in the eye. He bent down and took her in his arms where she wailed in his collar and refused to let go.

            "You will change your mind," Legolas said looking deep into Thranduil's eyes. "Once you have seen what I have seen, you'll learn to accept her."

            "This is a mistake," he replied warningly.

            Legolas turned on his heels and left the room. Niélawen sobbed continuously on his shoulder, her sad and frightened wails echoing in the halls. "I'm sorry," she wept. "I'm sorry. I don't want to go, I don't want to go!"

            He rubbed her back soothingly. "There is nothing to be sorry for. Nothing." 

He carried her to his room, and there he comforted her for hours. Her cries lessened by the passing time, but only as she became exhausted by her grief. No one passed through that hall until her sobbing had ceased, and she was fast asleep by the coming of night.

His door slid open, and Oronar leaned against the doorway. Legolas, aware of him, was still and silent, staring at the wall as he sat by Niélawen's sleeping form.

"You will not change the will of the King."

"Why can't I?" Legolas looked up challengingly.

"Because she is not worth anything. She is but a pretty little face, still carrying painful tokens of suffering. She is without a chance of survival. He will not change his mind because the notion is senseless."

Legolas flinched at his cruelty. He leaned his head against the wall, and acknowledged him no further. Oronar slammed the door with his departure, and Niélawen stirred awake.

"You are worth plenty," he whispered.

She gradually closed her eyes again, and as she drifted to a deep slumber she wrapped her hand around his fingers. Legolas followed in suit of rest, not at all undermined by his troubled heart. Once again she took him to a peaceful world where he was not saddened by her presence, but comforted. In his mind she gave to him solutions to his problems for a struggle that she, somehow, knew would be great, and she gave him warmth and security in that knowing it would not last long.

And as their sleep endured through an entire evening and morning, her strength and untouched power grew beyond her recollection.


	4. Path of the Valiant

            "...And this, Niélawen, is a plant not to be reckoned with." 

            Celahir raised a round leaf into the sunlight for her to see. The glossy blue-green of its skin shone beneath the sun's warm rays, but it was its edges that caught the light the most. Small but numerous needles lined the roundness of the plant, and their sharp tips glinted blood red. He gave her a meaningful look, but smiled triumphantly as he tucked it away in a large bag slung over his shoulders. He beckoned to the small body crouched at his feet. 

            "The Caradereg plant. When you are older I will teach you how to use it. Come, let us continue."

            Niélawen obediently got to her feet and walked at his side. The day was exceptional for summer, and even the gloomy forest, with all its trees and bushes, rippled in a refreshing breeze as they ventured close to the Forest River, a guide that was much like a road to the Elves of Mirkwood when traveling North, East, and West. In their case, they had gone Westward, and were presently making a loop back East to the way they came.

            Niélawen's dark flaxen hair blew into her face, and she stopped to spit out a great wad of long, loose waves from her mouth. She took a thread and observed it in the light. "My hair is very dark."

            Celahir stopped and looked back. He smiled. "Your hair is very beautiful, Niélawen, and especially lovely because it's unique."

            "That is my point!" the eight-year-old began as she jogged to catch up, her elongated legs allowing for an easier stride that had her beside him within three steps. "None of my friends have hair like mine. And they do not have green eyes, either."

            "You are not an Elf, Niélawen," he chuckled, and he led her through the trees. "Do you realize how special you are to not be one?"

            He heard her sigh, and from her dialogue he knew she was frowning also. "I wish I _were_ an Elf." She grabbed her hair and tucked it over her shoulders and behind her rounded ears, and then paused suddenly. She hated her ears, and she found herself always doing what she could to conceal them. With a slight scowl, she collected her attention back to her mentor as she placed heavy waft of hair over top her ears. 

            "I need Athelas," he murmured to himself, digging through his bag.

            Niélawen snickered behind him, trying to discreetly criticize him for being unable to find the most common plant in the forest. He veered around sharply, and she crouched to the ground to escape his scolding eye by using her convincing acting abilities to appear innocent in observing a flat bush low atop the soil. Her attempt proved successful like always, and he searched on through his bag.

            She dug around through the fern bush and grabbed at a heap of long, oval-shaped leaves. "What are these?"

            Celahir bent low. "Ah, the Bleothyl plant! It has bleaching properties, and more commonly found in the more Western parts near this river. Good find!"

            "It can bleach anything?"

            Celahir trudged along. "Only materials of sensitive fibers. Come now!"

Curiosity was taking a great influence over her mind as she considered snatching a sample or two, but somehow she thought the better of it. She broke into a run and skipped ahead of Celahir. 

            "Can we go home now?"

            "I need Athelas." He scanned the ground on both sides of him.

            "Here." She dropped the flowery plant into his bag.

            He looked at her admirably. "You found that quickly."

            "Quick eyes." Niélawen darted off. "I'm going on ahead!"

            She weaved through the trees at full speed, energized by the rush of wind blowing at her face. Her spirit and her endurance were boundless, and it was a significant reason as to why she was able to withstand the long hours of play with the Elvish children. She was delighted to be returning home to spend the rest of the afternoon with her friends.

            Without warning, a cloud of ravens rocketed out from the low branches of trees, startled by her presence. Several of them drew enough wit to proceed in the sky at Niélawen's coming, but many did not follow, and soared low and very swiftly beneath the trees as if blind of the obstruction ahead.

            Nine black masses drew towards her at frantic speeds, but she could not stop soon enough with her own gained speed. She caught a glimpse of them moving in, driving towards her head, and she threw her arms in the air, crying out for a second as she stumbled on her own feet when unable to veer away. Fear and adrenaline sent a fiery wave through her body, and she felt herself break into an overwhelming sweat from the frightening, scorching sensation in her flesh. She fell to the ground, and waited for pain. All she felt was the peculiar brushing of feathers and several small bodies against her arms and the backside of her hands.

            And then silence.

            There was no flapping of wings. No raven cries.

            She glanced up as she brought her hands away from her face.

            No cries— and no ravens at all.

            A dreadful unease tugged at her heart. She sat up, tears filling to the brim of her eyes as she stared at the nine dead birds laying flat in the soil at her feet, some piled over one another, some scattered individually. There had originally been so many she knew that more were most likely in bushes further away, as well. She moved in hesitantly for a closer look. No blood, no gashes. They were still and death had petrified them to a frozen state. Their open eyes still gleamed at her from the forest bed.

            She breathed loudly, caught between a sob and a terrified heave of air. She ran away, not daring to even glimpse behind her. She just wanted to leave. Her cold body shivered as she hurried back home, and all she wanted was a way to escape even faster.

            Legolas tugged at the arrows in the target board with a tiresome sigh. He retrieved all eleven of them from the center point and walked back to his place of shooting.

            Niélawen burst through the trees quicker and with more stealth than he could sense until the last moment. At first, out of alarm, he went to raise his bow, but the young girl threw her arms around his waist. Judging by her trembling body and strangled sob he knew something was terribly wrong, and he tossed his bow and all eleven arrows to the ground carelessly. He took her in his arms.

            "Mani naa ta?" [What is it?] he asked frantically, cupping her face in his large hands.

            She shook her head and breathed with a shudder on his shoulder.

            "Did you get lost?" he asked. "Did you lose Celahir?"

            Her cheek brushed against his bare shoulder as she gave a negative response.

            "Did something frighten you in the woods? An animal?"

            She hesitated, and then an unexpected, "I did not see them!"

            He pulled her away, examining her briefly. "Are you hurt?"

            "No."

            He relaxed, crouching on one knee and picking up his bow. He regarded her with some slight aggravation concerning the start she had given him. "Why are you crying?"

            She wiped her eyes and picked up her composure quickly.

            Legolas frowned, but he was certain he knew the problem. She had gotten separated, and out of panic she had been overwhelmed with alarm by roaming animals in the woods. "Go on, then, little one. Your friends are looking for you." He squeezed her shoulder and saw her off. Once she had passed through the trees, he bent low and began to pick up the scattered arrows from the ground, shaking his head with a slight smirk.

            "Legolas?"

            He looked up as Celahir approached him from the trees. "Yes?" He caught a glimpse of a dark object held with care in Celahir's two hands. His smirk was washed away immediately. "Mani naa tanya?" [What is that?] he asked sharply. 

            "You know what it is," Celahir spoke somberly. He laid the black bird on the ground before his feet. "One of nine that I found on my way here."

            "Nine?" he asked, dismayed. He observed it carefully.

            "It is not wounded. Just dead." Celahir looked around him curiously. "I hope Niélawen did not pass this mess on her way back…"

            Legolas entered the clearing of forest where some of the land dwellings of his people stood at the peak of the Elven King's Hall, all other homes perched high in the full grown beech trees that grew in a semi circle around the village. His people often savored warm days, and so the village was especially full of life. With his bow in hand and wrapped arrows clung under his arm, his eyes searched through the busy scene. It was not difficult to spot restless children in a crowd of towering adults standing at rest— primarily because there were so few young ones— and he located Niélawen's whereabouts almost instantly. She stood with two of her young male friends, and looking content enough by their sides, he sighed with assurance and continued to the Hall.

            Two Elves advanced abruptly from behind, both of them members of those in support of keeping the mortal girl within care of their people, and Legolas halted with noting the urgency and discomfort on their faces. 

            "There is ill-word going around, Legolas," one spoke softly, and he was careful to look around him as he spoke. "There is someone among us distorting truth."

            Legolas' eyes flashed unsteadily as his brow creased. "Of whom?"

            "Niélawen," the second replied. "We have overheard enough to know this much— too many want her gone. The word is traveling quickly."

            Legolas felt his heart ache. "…Why? Why do they do this?"

            "Ask your _friend_." A nod to the right sent Legolas' eyes wandering through the village, and it happened that his father came in sight, followed by Oronar and a second man of same stature, build, and appearance. Legolas' blood ran hot and his eyes narrowed. The two Elves next to him squeezed his shoulder and left him discreetly.

            But he managed to set aside his wrath for the moment as the thought of Niélawen came to mind. He walked through gatherings of people and weaved between dwellings of stone bricks, but he could not find her as easily as he had earlier. A frantic disposition washed over him, one that felt unusual. It was as though he was running against time, and there was none of it to spare. He felt a deep urgency to locate her, and save her from pain he feared would draw nearer with time, if it had not struck already.

            "Legolas." Someone tugged at his arm.

            He veered around quickly and was happy to see her, but all thought changed the instant he caught sight of her watery eyes. But she had not yet cried until then, where she was finally able to let go and show the utmost of her hurt. He wrapped his arms around her arms and braced her in remorse, and looking around him he saw no sign of her friends.

            "They said they have lost faith in my reliance," she spoke with an undertone. "They said I dream of shadow and hatred, but it's not true." She seized hold of his shirt with trembling hands, and never yet had he seen her so weakened by confusion. "How do they know? I haven't dreamed of those things in years!"

            There was nothing Legolas could say. He wished there were words that could comfort her, but as he looked up and traced the footsteps of his father and Oronar— no longer aided by a third company— he was certain that only actions could do justice.

            Legolas crushed his teeth beneath the heavy pressing of his jaw. With his boiling blood pounding through his veins, he took Niélawen's small hand fiercely and led her at a quick pace toward the double green doors into the Hall that were among the two open passageways for the community to use at will. He strode through the entrance knowing the gate would bring them along the same route as Thranduil and Oronar. 

They met face to face, and there was some shock in seeing Legolas in the infuriated state he was in.

            Legolas looked over them one after another, unsure of who to address first. Oronar would not look at him, and his eyes had nowhere else to go but upon his father. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his contained anger causing him to breathe sharply through his nose.

            "I have done nothing," Thranduil said softly, looking bewildered yet handling his composure well. "I have no function in dealing with your actions… or others'."

            "What, your _sheep_, you mean? Perhaps you should better look after them before you start losing them by _mishap_."

            Thranduil stood over his son, and Legolas recoiled only a little. "You should watch how you handle yourself around the little one," he advised in a whisper, glancing down only briefly at Niélawen, still clasping to Legolas' firm hand. He walked easily passed them and continued on his way without a word, and behind him Oronar proceeded, as well, though unwisely he had chosen to delay his passing.

            Legolas planted his hand firmly against the wall, and the rough stone crumbled beneath the heavy hit of his palm. Oronar was trapped behind his arm. 

            "Your father is right," he muttered, and he chuckled in the back of his throat as he observed Legolas' barrier indicatively. "Don't you know it's risky to expose humans to their true nature? All it takes is a little aggression to rekindle it."

            Legolas' hand slipped from Niélawen's, and he grabbed Oronar by the collar and threw him against the wall with his fury-driven force. "She needs to know how to deal with hardnosed obstructions." 

            "And you would like to hit me, wouldn't you, Legolas?" He gave a half-grin. "You know there is too much power behind me. No matter— all that you live for will be crushed. It's information too promising for reality to challenge. _She won't last_." He glanced down at Niélawen, and there was wickedness behind his smirk. "A pretty face."

            Legolas' nails pierced through Oronar's shirt to the point where felt them digging into his own palm. He pressed him one last time against the wall and stepped away. "I know." He grabbed the girl's hand and strode through the hall in the opposite direction. When they could no longer see the light from the corridor they came from, the pace of Legolas' heart slowed. Niélawen watched him uncertainly as she hurried to match his stride.

            "You know that you do not need them, Niélawen— you will not ever need them," he told her at last. "You will always have a friend in Celahir, and in me, also. We will never abandon you for any price."

            She continued to stare at him. "Legolas, are you alright?"

            He stopped slowly, staring ahead as their speed lessened. "I'm upset."

            "But why? I'm not anymore." She looked up at him and beamed proudly. Her eyes were clear again and without evidence of tears ever being shed. "Celahir has taught me lots of things, you know, like the secrets only the Elves grow up to gain knowledge of. And you have taught me about art and music, things that I would not want to live without. I'm happy, and I feel smarter than all of them."

He found himself smiling at her pride. "And that you will be."

She smiled, too, but her eyes lingered elsewhere as he watched an idea being contemplated in her mind. "But there's… one thing. Legolas, can you teach me something else?"

            "What is that?"

            "To fight."

            He went rigid, and gazed ahead blankly. "To fight…?" He peered down at her uncertainly.

            "I can learn! I want to learn!" she pleaded with him eagerly. "I believe I can learn!"

            "You have nothing to fight for."

            She stood defiant. "I may later."

            Legolas shut his eyes gravely, and kneeled before her. He looked into her eyes, and what he saw was resolution— out of faith and of sadness. His eyes delved deep into hers, and soon all he peered into was the depth of her heart, fierce by her compassion that he had not fully noted until then. "You _want_ to fight? Do you know the cost of war?"

            "I will never fight for the sake of war!" she said boldly. "I will fight for the reasons you do. For what good there is in the world, and for peace."

            "How do you know that is why I fight?"

            "I don't." Her eyes sparkled with a brilliant, intelligent light. "I just see it in you. And I cannot imagine you any other way." She smiled hopefully.

            But he did not. He looked to the floor sorrowfully, having watched her eyes as she spoke. What he saw in them was the pain ahead she would not be able to foresee at so young an age— her own doom that could sprout from her spirit and her passion. It was not her fate for certain, nor was it far from possibility, but he was frightened for her. "No good comes out of fighting." His mind was disordered and burdened heavily. He did not want a life of conflict for her, but there was no other world for her to live in but the one that was already shattering because of war.

            He inhaled air bracingly. To survive she would need the skills to stand against the warfare of the world, or else she would die from it. It was his duty to teach her.

            The staves clashed with the sound of dry bone against bone, but like the particles of earth that they were they withstood the might of the skilled squire and the child, who wielded the solid staff of oak as strongly as a sword and held it aloft as surely as if it were wrought from steel. Dusk crept over Mirkwood, but they sparred on, and the girl refused to succumb to weariness. Their silhouettes dances upon the grassy earth as the last color of the sunset flooded the sky with magenta— an image that was almost breathtaking.

            Legolas stood with his arms crossed as he watched the spar proceed endlessly, and Niélawen slash and block tirelessly. Intrigue swelled within him, as well as anxiety of both exhilarating excitement and of fear. Celahir came up behind him.

            He nodded his head, impressed. "She tires the squire."

            Niélawen swerved, dodged, and leapt lithely and skillfully with her long, nimble legs and quick body. The staff of her opponent did not touch her once, nor did it cross her. She faced the weapon like it was the battling opponent itself, avoiding it but challenging it all at the same time.

            "So young, and yet she is a natural." Celahir was near incredulous laughter.

            The squire stumbled back and his wooden staff clattered to the earth. He looked upon the eight-year-old with admiration and shock. Then, he kneeled on one knee and bowed his head to her. Niélawen's smile glittered with radiance as she acknowledged the Elves triumphantly.

            "Incredible," Celahir murmured.

            Legolas gave her an esteemed nod of his head, and retreated to indoors. Many things stirred within his heart, but at that moment his pride in her was greater than his love of beauty and nature and life as a whole— she had become his ideal, his new delight and glorious honor. 

            And he swore, like a daughter, he was beginning to love her.


	5. Divine Shadow

            "..._The host of Morgoth, aroused by the tumult of Lammoth and the light of the burning at Losgar, came through the passes of Ered Wethrin, the Mountains of Shadow, and assailed F__ëanor on a sudden, before his camp was full-wrought or put in defense_." 

            She looked up inquiringly.

            "Finish," Celahir indicated.

            She sighed unwillingly, and bent over the large, dusty text. "_And there on the grey fields of Mithrim was fought the Second Battle in the Wars of Beleriand. Dagor-nuin-Giliath it is named, Battle-under-Stars_..." She suddenly slammed the book shut, and dust fluttered in all directions. "I know this story already. You have repeated all you know about Dagor-nuin-Giliath more times than I can keep track of, and yet I still have to read of it from these dusty slabs of grit!" She leaned forward in her desk, her deep green eyes staring through her tutor condescendingly. "At least Legolas makes these tales interesting."

            "He tells the account in songs," Celahir said flatly.

            She looked up with fierceness in her eyes. "I like music."

            "Music will not tell all the facts, Néla."

            "The education bores me."

            "Fourteen-year-olds frustrate me. But you aren't bruised yet so you are in no position to protest. At least pretend you are interested and you may even start to like these lessons."

            "I do not think I need them."

            "Children younger than you knew these stories before you turned six. You are behind." 

            "I'm not scarred from it."

            Celahir surrendered quietly. Niélawen's behavior had transformed drastically only years earlier where her perpetual enthusiasm to be enlightened was suddenly thwarted by some mannerism likely common only among her own kind, since mood swings never tended to be issues with the Eldar children. Despite what he had witnessed for two years, he knew she did not mean the things that spat from her mouth, for the natural luster and intelligence she possessed was clear indication of her attention and her interest still, indeed, well intact. As well, he was finally beginning to find some amusement in her indecisiveness— these were stories he wished to keep to himself and his brother with reserved humor, since Legolas seemed to hold her so high in esteem and thought her to be as disciplined and skilful as one of their own warriors— or so he told them.

            There came a knock on the door, and Legolas entered cautiously. His eyes were laid upon Niélawen with intent after acknowledging Celahir in defeat. She slumped in her seat, knowing he must have overheard her from the hall— however far down he had been, with his keen hearing it did not matter in any case. "Don't be such a nuisance," he half-muttered, solemnly embarrassed. 

            She grimaced. "May I leave now?" she asked Celahir.

            Celahir dragged the heavy text off the table, cracking a smile. "Suddenly now you have manners? Go then."

            Niélawen smiled broadly almost instantly as she leapt from her seat, and she thanked Celahir half-way through the entryway. "Hannon le."

            Legolas brought her down the bright corridor. Niélawen walked in an equal stride now, having grown very tall with her shoulders nearly level with his own. She took a great handful of her thick, curly blonde hair as they walked and threw it up skillfully using a single pin.

            "I assume you're ready."

            She tightened her vambraces that had been casually and comfortably left loose. "I'm prepared to try again. Could I start with the bow?" She paused, and as she made a last adjustment on her gloves she grinned. "However I'm willing to try the sword again…"

            Legolas stopped abruptly in the halls before the door that would take them outdoors. "I don't want you using a sword any more."

            "Not ever?"

            He did not answer, and she continued to smirk deliberately.

            "I'll do better this time!" she pleaded.

            He rolled up his sleeve. A long, white slash ran up his forearm. "This is from assuming that a wielder without skill can do no harm."

            She smirked. "I'm terrible and quick." She paused to study his expression. "Agility _is_ important."

            He glared and pulled down his sleeve. "No sword."

            "Fine, no sword. But you do understand that you will not have that scar for much longer than a month?"

            "The exception of me being an Elf does little to change my mind."

            They stepped into the sunlight of late afternoon. The sky lay blue above them, a few clouds hanging here and there, with a large, dark mass lingering in the East. Niélawen proceeded into a light jog and approached a beech tree where a bow and quiver had been set.

            "It is going to rain today," Legolas said grimly, taking his own bow into his hands.

            "That's a shame. I was hoping to take Nessa for a ride."

            "She's too young a horse to be put through such labor."

            "You nag a great deal, Legolas. I know how to look after her."

            Legolas groaned under his breath and followed her into the mass of dark trees. Sparrows scattered as they crossed through fallen leaves and foliage and walked a small distance to where the air was tight and the trees grew tall, thick, and very close together. Niélawen chose a spot for shooting, and indicated so with a glance to him. 

            "There are too many trees in this direction. Shoot over here, to the North."

            She drew an arrow and took sure aim. "I like it here."

            He decided not to clash with her attitude, and he proceeded to watch from behind. "Follow through with what you know. This is not easy for one of your skill." He peered ahead with his keen eyes. "Seventeen trees down. Hit the oak."

            The shaft was released silently, and the arrow was pierced through the air strongly, whistling passed the trunks. It struck the fifteenth tree and snapped to the ground. 

            Thunder rumbled in the distance. With aggravation from her unsuccessful shot, she glared accusingly at the storm moaning in the Eastern direction, grudgingly drawing a second arrow. She peered far ahead, catching a very tiny edge of her target before drawing back on the twine.

            The shadow of the dark clouds slowly loomed above her target oak and pressed closer through the forest at an unusual speed. Crows sprang into the sky, screeching their alarmed cries into the air. She felt a cool breath against her body, followed by a dank chill that crawled up her front.

            "Did you feel that?"

            Legolas' eyes never fell from her as he observed her form "I felt nothing. Pay attention."

            She pursed her lips and nervously pulled back on the twine. Her entire right arm— her reliable shooting side— shuddered unexpectedly and went numb, and the arrow was released from her deadened fingers. She cried out in surprise as it hit the second tree nearest to her, shattered into pieces, and repelled from the tree toward them both. 

            "What happened?" he demanded, reaching out swiftly and instinctively to protect her vital parts from the jagged wooden shards. "You could have—"

            "Killed myself? It could not be more evident, thank you." Her brows furrowed in trouble. "But I felt something out there," she interjected with alarm written on her face. She took her numb arm and observed it unsurely, peering far ahead. She was only now afraid because she was certain it was a presence she had seen, and felt, many times before. The last of those times had been so many years ago, and she had almost forgotten about those nightmares altogether.

            When she blinked and looked down to observe her arm, she found that a translucent haze had suddenly fallen over her eyes. She stumbled as both alarm and dizziness overcame her. Her head began to ache immensely as her blood ran ice cold throughout, surging through her temples like acid. The numbness spread beyond her arm until the entire expanse of her flesh felt thick like bitterly cold. Dark spots flickered over her eyes, and before all conscious thought seemed to leave her she wondered if Legolas had sensed something unusual.

            The darkness that had before only appeared as frequent blemishes in her sight became a large mass of shadow and a surrounding frame of white light that made her eyes throb in their sockets. At this time she was certain she had opened her mouth and cried aloud desperately, but she heard nothing beyond a shrill, deafening screech that had very suddenly overtaken her hearing.

            She felt fingers curl around her arm that multiplied rapidly. Every touch was calloused, and every fingertip sent the most severe chill into her skin that consumed her body and mind in excessive terror. She could see nothing.

            She began to feel as though she was falling back—slowly turning with the earth and with her rolling heals, slipping uncontrollably from equilibrium.

            A deep drum sounded in her head— her blood was pumping so furiously that the sound of it was more deafening than the harsh whispers uttering an outlandish tongue in her ears. They were fierce and forceful, manipulating her senses as easily as she could do herself. She was a fighter— no woman even among the Elves could match her strength— but at last she could not struggle against any of it any longer.

            Where was Legolas? 

A dim light closed in from behind. Warmth returned to her blood. The shadows drew back, but her blindness still sealed her sight and the ache in her uneasy head throbbed in its aftermath. She fell against something warm and solid, and let herself drift out of sense.

            Legolas pressed a damp cloth to her forehead as he held her beneath the darkening sky. No one had heard his cries— or hers— and none had walked in sight, and for countless minutes he sat against a tree with a torn and dampened piece of his tunic held above her brows. He watched her eyes flutter open and saw them twinkle green with life. 

            Niélawen gazed up into the sky in disorient. For a quick instant all memory was lost— her name she could not even manage to recall. Several seconds passed until she felt well enough to look around her. A deep twinge of pain singed on her left cheek, and being unable to feel much else she was very much tempted to touch it.

            "Leave it be. It's bleeding."

            Her body soon came to feel warm and fevered deep within her. There was a sensation in her blood she had never experienced before, and she felt both fatigued and energetic at the same time.

            "Speak to me, Niélawen."

            She stared up sharply at the fair face looming over her. Legolas removed the damp fabric from her skin and cupped her face with his large hand. "I don't want to," she mumbled dazedly. 

            He frowned, but she saw relief spring into his face. Niélawen looked into his eyes as they watched her carefully, and she smiled warmly—how greatly she loved his eyes she could not even express in words. She snuggled closer in his arms and shut her eyes peacefully. "What happened?"

            "I hoped you would tell me." He slowly climbed to his feet and set her head gently upon the grass. "When your eyes hazed over and your face went ashen as a wraith you slid against a tree… I caught you as you fell to the ground. It has been half an hour's time since." He kneeled next to her and his crystalline eyes met hers meaningfully. He was concerned. "Elves listen well, you know."

            She carefully sat upright against the tree and nodded while heaving a sigh. Her head was still spinning, but she had the calmness to tolerate it for a while longer. "They do." She caressed the insides of her fingers in her lap, and spoke low and with shame. "It was just like my dreams of long ago. But they… they never managed to get so close to me or affect me like that. Those voices have never frightened me so much…" She felt a great weight come down upon her chest and lungs, and she instinctively took an intake of breath, and swallowed.

            Her vision wavered for an instant and she felt a strong sense of supremacy in the rapid beating of her heart. She gazed ahead blankly, listening and waiting. 

            "Niélawen?" Legolas leaned forward warily. 

            Her senses began to race, and she found herself able to hear all noises— beneath the earth, up in the sky, and hundreds of thousands of miles across forest, plain, and water— all except his voice. Everything else drowned out the sound of his deep, gentle speech. 

Something built inside of her in a period of time too soon to count— a shadow far thicker than the upcoming storm. It was filling her, quickly. Her energy soared— she no longer felt like herself.

            Legolas reached out to touch her face, to gently observe the open wound on her left cheek that he remembered from long ago as being the largest and the worst, stretching from her cheekbone to the hairline before her ears. He came in slowly and carefully.

            At last a banked ferocity, lying just below the surface, spilled over uncontrollably and without reason, pure and very raw. She felt her blood become as hot as the sun's core. Her hand snatched his faster than even he could hope to catch. 

            Her power caught him off guard. She pulled his reaching arm in towards her, and thrust him back by driving her opposite and unused hand against his torso.

            He rolled off his knees and onto his side and returned to a sturdy position in the way he always reacted when struck in such a way. He stared at her in alarm as she threw herself toward him. This time he tumbled to the ground, caught beneath her body straddling his, and with her hands she pinned him to the grass. He peered into her eyes, and just like the rock-solid strength she endured over him, they were black orbs filled by shadow alone, and nothing else. Her teeth were grit viciously, and she no longer looked like the engaging and tender girl he adored.

            Now in the open, the commotion caused a stir not far off, and there came a number of bystanders who had caught a glimpse of the attack. They rushed to their Prince's aid, shouting for the sentinels, and in an unusual number of four they tore the young girl from him. As she was pulled away he felt the white nail marks in his wrist pulsate with a vicious stinging. 

            Niélawen was restrained from the Elves' grips, and she looked upon Legolas with the after burn of fury in her eyes. They gradually grew soft and returned to normal, and then quickly filled with overwhelmed tears of dismay. 

            Legolas lay upon the ground, gaping after her and refusing assistance from his people that waited at his side. He could not hold back from the alarm and bewilderment that had flooded through his mind at that instant. She had assembled so much power and so much anger toward him that he actually felt it surging from her skin, affecting the very air around her. He had only come close to being able to resist her strength, but his agility had not come to his aid.

            He sprang to his feet, ignoring the leaves latched in his long, flaxen air and upon his clothing, when he unexpectedly caught a glimpse of a strong and resentfully familiar individual leaning against a tree with a small company widely in view, all staring his way. Legolas closed his fists and pursed his lips, and hurried after Niélawen with Oronar's eyes gazing intently after him.

            "Niélawen!" He stormed toward the door of her room and was faced with a locked knob. He pressed his ear against the panels briefly, and heard her pacing inside. "Open the door!" he yelled, backing away. If he knew her well enough, she would not respond— not for the reason that she was stubborn, but because she was too afraid to face him.

            Grim and very much driven by frustration, he rammed the door with the side of his body, and the continuous impacts thundered through the echoing halls.

            "No!" she screamed from within. "Legolas, stop!"

            The hinges gave in and shattered, and the door crashed to the floor. She stood very still as he approached her promptly, sweat lining her face and tears irritating her eyes and the skin around them. He took her by the elbow and dragged her into the hall roughly, and there he led her to his room in a very hasty and pitiless stride. He shoved her inside brusquely and secured the door behind him, knowing well enough that others had followed. Fists rattled against the door as several people pounded on the door with desperation.

            Niélawen rushed to the corner, vulnerable and afraid of everyone and everything. Every bash against the door made her flinch. "I'm sorry!" she cried, almost pleadingly it seemed— as if she was afraid of _him_. "I don't understand why— I did not—"

            He grasped her shoulders and shook her violently, urgency and scorn in his eyes. "I know you did not mean to! I know, and I do not care what you do— but do not run from me!" He pushed her to a seat, seemingly harder than he intended. She refused the chair close to the door in which she had been directed, and went to the bed in its place. "Sit, and you will tell me everything!" 

            The knocking upon the door became more furious. "Open, Legolas!" they shouted.

            Out of his own anger, he threw his fist against its oak surface, and both the wall and hinges vibrated. There was silence from the other end, and numerous, heavy footsteps stormed away urgently. Legolas knew they would be back.

            "I don't know what it was," she wailed. "I'm sorry, Legolas. I'm sorry." She crawled close to the head of the bed and closed her knees closer to her body. She shivered and cupped her hands over her eyes, brushing away the wetness on her cheeks with quavering hands. "I did not hurt you, did I?" she asked quietly, still appearing fearful.

            "No," he said softly, suddenly wishing he had not been so aggressive in worry that he had caused more panic in her, and he sat beside her. "Only startled."

            She shook her head frantically. "You're never startled. Ever." She pressed her shaking fist to her lips, her eyes finally beginning to settle on one place instead of frenetically circling the room. "What have I done…what have I become…"

            "It was a mistake," he said slowly. "But I think only you can answer that."

            She shook her head angrily, gritting her teeth as she spoke. "I told you all I know!  

            "You haven't."

            She held her eye contact with him gravely and spoke in a soft, careful voice. "I think there was another voice inside my head— but it was not my own. Something made me want to hurt you." She breathed in with a shudder. "I acted upon those feelings… what I've done was my doing, even though I do not know where the urge arose from."

            He took her hand, but did not recoil at its iciness. He did not feel that she had a right to guilt, and he hoped he could try to comfort her. "How are you now?"

            Her lip quivered, coming close to tears again but managing with great effort to hold them off. "Too strong to feel the weakness that's come over me." She moved towards him, and squeezed his hand in return. "Legolas, I should know what this is," she whispered. "It feels too much a part of me for it to be so feral."

            Legolas recalled Oronar's gaze— knowing and observant. He had been satisfied with what he saw, but shocked. The look of his eyes still made his blood churn madly. Nearly everyone wanted to see her fall. He would not give them her defeat. 

            "I trust you."

            "What?"

            He looked into her eyes, indulging in their lush green color and the inquisitive beauty they held. "You are not dangerous, and I do not fear you. I will help you." He smiled— she needed to see it.

            "Are you certain you want to do that?" Despite the doubt in her words, her face brightened significantly.

            "I swore it years ago." He moved to the edge of the bed and stood, and laying out his hand to her. "But we have yet to learn of your gifts."

            She smiled, and took his hand. Her gifts… how wonderful and beautiful he could make unusual things seem, as if there was a light to be seen within everything. She crawled to the edge and let him escort her away. "How can you know there is more to be seen from me if we have witnessed one thing?"

            "I just know there is more."

            Celahir scrambled through drawers and shelves of bottled substances and potent herbs while Legolas and Niélawen waited aside in the poorly lit laboratory chamber. Niélawen folded her arms over her chest, weaving a curly piece of her bright blonde hair around her finger. She tucked it behind her ears, and then quickly mended her mistake, tossing it over the rim of her ear to conceal their shape.

            "Why do you do that?" Legolas inquired softly, and she acknowledged him sharply having been unaware of him watching.

            She looked down at the floor. "I don't want them to show. If no one can see them, they cannot judge me for my difference." She looked away shamefully, and added, "It makes me feel better."

            "Why?"

            She met his eyes for a mere second. "Sometimes I think I can cover up the things that make me a distinction. I just want to seem more like everyone else. That's what I've always wanted."

            Celahir scattered jars upon the low table. "There, now. Before I get into the elaborate observations, why not go over the basics, hmm?"

            Niélawen hopped onto the table's surface and let Celahir inspect the dilation of her eyes. Secondly, he studied her pulse, then her reflexes, and all the simple steps of her physical inspections. All the while, he did not speak.

            "Niélawen," he started at last, "do you remember the Caradereg?" He held a bluish-green tinted leaf lined along its round edges with thin, sharp, red needles.

            She gazed at him for a long time, and nodded. He handed the Caradereg leaf to her. Legolas watched with interest, not being familiar with the purpose of the lethal looking plant.

             Niélawen inserted one of the red leaf needles into her wrist, and quickly turned her back to Legolas. "Don't watch." 

            Legolas knit his forehead, suddenly concerned. Celahir gestured to him to settle his worries as she handed back the leaf, a small but visible pool of red liquid contained like a dish. 

            "Listen," Celahir spoke up skeptically, holding the plant containing her blood. "Are you sure this is not a mere illness?"

            "I have never been ill!" she said defensively. "Never since I have been in Mirkwood." She grinned cockily to Legolas. "I call it adopting a bit of Elvish vitality."

            "You don't have Elvish vitality," Legolas told her dully. "You're not an Elf."

            He did not look long enough to see the downcast sadness fall upon her face.

Celahir turned to his protective and obstructive wall of jars, his face clouding as he went absent with study. "Then this will take some time."

            Niélawen nodded her head knowingly. "All evening."

            "As long as I stay to it for all hours," he stated dryly. "Analyzing blood using herbs and plants is tedious work." Celahir rolled his eyes in exasperation and came close to laughing over the nonsense of the demanding duty. 

            Legolas took Niélawen by the arm without warning, and led her out of the room. "Go on."

            "Why?" she demanded with an odd face.

            All it took was a mere look, and she did not question further. Celahir smiled and gave her a wink, and she frowned in defeat as she passed through the doorway.

            "Isn't it your time to nap?" Legolas asked, cocking his head to one side in mock question, and with an arrogant smirk he slammed the door.

            Niélawen stared at the roof of her room, tucked beneath a heavy layer of quilts within her elaborate bed. She took Legolas' suggestion into consideration, being very weary anyway. The candles in the far corner of the room glowed lively and created graceful shadows and shapes along the walls for her soothing enjoyment. A shiver drew up her spine, and she shuddered coldly beneath the blankets, pulling them to her chin.

            She felt invaded.

            Her eyes scanned the dimness in timidly. She hated the dark; she had always been afraid of it for the longest years of her life. Her only rejoice from the uneasiness of night came from having Legolas close by. She smiled and closed her eyes with ease, warmly imagining she was young again and his nurturing company was acceptable for her age.

            Her thoughts drew her into a deep, comforted state of sleep almost instantly and she welcomed it appreciatively. But however the quick shift into slumber was, it did not arise from a natural inclination.

            Her body was engulfed in a wave of warmth, and she watched the darkness grow dim until there was actually white light all around her. She felt safe and secure. The energy pouring from her surrounding was astounding, and there she remained, undaunted and content, and unable to know any different.

            Again she felt that eyes were ever lying upon her. Thought wanting to respond somehow to the strong warning inside her head she was unable to move, and her only option was to watch and wait with anxiety and caution.

            She heard the distant whisper of a voice, beckoning to her in the Sindarin tongue she grew up knowing so well. The voice was soft and gentle— the ring of a feminine tone. In the Elvish tongue it spoke, but with little clarity and without the natural skill of the language. Nonetheless, _Tolo na ammen_ was a distinctive call to her. 

            The voice rose in volume and behind it came a weak rumbling of gathering noise, growing in strength as the voice surrounded her. Like a looming storm, darkness crept from the distance, seeping into an invisible tunnel that engulfed her. _Come to us_, it said, and her body became tight and rigid. An uncontrollable power willed her to cry as a compelling sorrow consumed her mind and body.

            Voices overlapped with speeches of the common tongue, Elvish, and of another she loathed upon hearing, for though a small part of her mind weakly recalled the language, a greater force willed her against understanding it.

            At last she cried, loud and mournful over the hundreds of voices, unsure why she was feeling the incredible grief.

            _Naidamahën… Naidamahën…_

One word was being slurred against the noise around her, filling her head with more sound than she could handle. Not one voice was in time with the other. They just spoke. 

  She never met the shape of a single concrete figure; she only felt their presence, breathing on her and whispering in her ear when she seemed caught off guard. She wept unconsciously and powerlessly, and the voices drew back in triumph. She could not move, nor could she turn her ears away from listening. And for every moment of fear and vengeful craving came the painful burning upon every one of her scars upon her face and over every inch of her body; and the lone slash along her cheek alone inflicted a venomous fire through her veins, feeling it tear open and draw in toxic air that scorched at her flesh and blood.

            But a splendid light came from behind her; a belligerent defense that spread across her body a shield. Her abstract defender tore her from the darkness and the evil, and she watched it all become swallowed around her like a wormhole.

            And she heard Legolas' voice…

            "Niélawen!" His strong hands cupped her face frantically. "Come back, Niélawen. It's a dream, you're dreaming."

            Her mind was a torrent of heat waves. She could not see straight and she could feel very little, but she did find the comfort of being in his arms as he held her firmly against his body.

            She took a great breath of air, gasping from the drowning depths of the immense darkness. Legolas placed his hand over her sweaty, ashen forehead, and sighed with what seemed like relief, laying her head against neck as she twitched frantically. He held her tight until her body quivered less.

            "They will come back if you leave." She gripped the loose shirt on his arm.

            "What did they say to you?" he asked her softly, bringing her body down to rest upon her pillow.

            She closed her eyes. Her damp chest rose and collapsed with each uneven breath. "_Naidamahën_," she breathed wearily. "That is all they said…"

            Legolas wiped away the tears on her cheeks, among those that had already dried upon her scarred cheek and those that still drew forth from the corners of her eyes. He put a soft cloth to the bleeding wound on her left cheek. "Hiro hîdh [find peace], Néla. Sleep now."

            "Naidamahën," she murmured. "They want her to come back…" She rested against the pillow with his arms holding her. Before all thought and sense left her, she mouthed things that she had intended to be spoken, things that should have been heard.

_They will find her…_

            Early morning sat grimly in the dark setting of the hall beneath the earth. Legolas passed out of the olive green door of Niélawen's chamber and followed the path of the hallway wearily and without conscious thought. 

            Three years.  Three straight years had passed by in placid nights where Niélawen did not cry into the emptiness, woken in a cold sweat by hallucinations and nightmares that left her sleepless nights full of terror.

            He wished he could endow upon her his strength and his wisdom so that she could see passed the evil that was consuming her. And he did not doubt that it was an evil influence that was taking over her. His heart fell in shame at his hopeful assumption that she had a gift, suddenly beginning to believe that it was truly an imbedded curse poisoning her mind, and encouraging her abilities was only encouraging her breakdown.

            Celahir darted towards him from the height of the corridor at a high speed unusual for someone as held-together and patient as himself. Legolas did not regard him until he skidded to a halt before his feet. 

            "I found it," he said softly, his excitement palpable. "I have little to prove it— you now have only my word to trust, but the truth is justified. I have the answers." He pulled Legolas into the corner. "My labor has proved us all wrong. Even your theories, as extravagant as they were, were miniscule in comparison to what I have discovered."

            They simultaneously glanced down the halls to ensure the emptiness would endure. Celahir stepped in close, and a crooked, delightful smile lit up his face.

            "She is not ordinary at all. She must have… _incredible_ abilities that she has not yet seen or even felt to the full extent because of their potential— destructive or not I could not tell. Incredible is not even the correct word to use— her mind and her body are creating something brilliant, powers beyond those that can possibly be seen within the blood of a human. She may very well be immune to any plague that comes her way, and any other substance for that matter, unless she induces herself with something deadly.  The reactions of her blood show such deterrence that I cannot be wrong. She has no flaw, no real physical weakness at all." His smile was broad, and he was nodding eagerly for a response.

            "But her mind is corrupted."

            "Alas, that I cannot study further," Celahir replied, quickly falling into dismay. "But we can help her. Oh Legolas, this is the greatest discovery of my life! Niélawen is a divine human being! She has lived under our guidance! No doubt we have taken part in creating her brilliance."

            "What is she then?" he inquired hesitantly. On his next words he intended to keep from speaking, but his powerful curiously let it slip. "A witch?"

            Celahir grinned broadly. "Amusing. Sorceress is a better term, though if I weren't so educated I would label her a God. However, more likely she is of some very divine race that has not been seen for hundreds of centuries—going as far as possessing the blood of the Valar, if you will! But I must take this more seriously since I have not yet seen the full extent of her capabilities, only evidence of her present state." His eyes widened in excitability.

            Legolas was silent.

            Celahir's face fell. "You have nothing to say of this?"

            "… I do not know what to say. Or what to do with her, for that matter."

            "What you have always done. She has become splendid and gifted with your help. Believe me, my friend. Keep on with what it is you are doing." He took Legolas by the elbow and led him up the corridor. "She has already learned much from you and me— the history of our world, life of the earth, might in combat. We can teach her all the skills we, as Elves, are endowed with. She will become as clever, versatile, and able as the Silvan people."

            "And make her what she is not?"

            "We are only encouraging what she already is, mellon." Celahir smiled up at him. "And she is perfect."

            A/N: Note that the very start of this chapter included a few excerpts from _The Silmarillion. _Not mine in the least. ^_^


	6. The Love of Wine

            Nessa's hooves thundered on the cold, hardened ground. The chill wind blew at her ebony mane and whistled briskly against her steel structure. Fast and relentless, she was untouched by the roaring, swerving gust of fall's chill, and was toughened by the weathering of nature much to the likeness of her rider. The duo was a fleck of shadow darting at light-speed through the forest; come and gone with a blink of an eye. Nessa entered a clearing and before her laid the Forest River, a heavy layer of steam lingering above the waters. She trotted— though still eager for a fast ride— to the wide oak bridge that stood the expanse of the river. 

            "Mae carnen, Nessa," Niélawen whispered to her with an affectionate stroke along her neck. She drew back her shadowy hood, and in the dim autumn light her hair reflected the color and light of the veiled sun above. But the roots of her locks had begun to fade to a much darker tone, no longer flaxen like the rest of her head. She had noted this many weeks ago, and she would tend to it upon her return.  

            She gazed ahead at the elevated land and the two grand, beautifully crafted doors of oak that stood at the foot of the bridge on the opposite side. She smiled, biting her lower lip ecstatically and gazing at the Elven King's Gate with longing. Looking above it, she took in the appreciable sight of the high forest that covered the gradually sloping hill and ran on forever into the dim, grey horizon. It was one of the first times she had ever seen her home from afar, and only now, because of being parted with it for a month, did it strike her as a natural fortress of unimaginable intrigue and enticing depth.

            She beckoned Nessa forward, seeing only one face in her mind and knowing who would be the first to welcome her home.

            Legolas heaved at Turgon's reins and the grand white stallion veered to the left, halting upon instant command. The fair-featured Elf was deathly silent in Turgon's saddle. The horse's perceptive tendency and closeness towards his Elven master willed him to keep his mobility at bay, and the intensity grew so hot in him as it did the Elf that he even stopped breathing. Legolas strained to hear over the deafening tranquility of the forest, his deliberately slowed breath billowing out in a translucent fog before him. He drowned out the light rustling of dry, frosty leaves and branches in the cool breeze; the gentle flapping of tiny birds' wings; the cautious movements of wild animals several miles out. Closer, though— two miles or less— came the frantic stirring amongst bushes and dead foliage. Footsteps. Breathing. He stood tall in the stirrups, craning his neck in the four directions around him. He smelled the air in one direction, and his face turned up at the foul stench. 

            He squeezed inward against the stirrups, and Turgon trotted forward soundlessly. All the while he listened, hearing everything beyond his and Turgon's movements. His horse's steps grew longer and glided more softly over the ground. The subject's breathing was easily heard— raspy, exhausted, and rank to the likeness of a swamp.

Their distance closed in to less than a mile, and clear in his view scampered a hunched Orc behind tall ferns, looking uneasy and cautious but mindlessly failing to consider any scouting eyes further off.

Turgon stopped, and Legolas cupped his hands over his mouth. He mimicked the cry of a finch, and watched the response of his target. "Now," he whispered slowly and ever so softly, leaning in close to Turgon, "Guilty, or not?" The horse kicked at the ground with its front hoof in a growing desire to begin the chase.

The Orc stopped in alarm. He scanned the woodland around him, and Legolas watched the beads of grimy sweat trickle down his face. And finally, for little reason at all save for panic, he bounded off, rattled and dumbfounded, staggering mindlessly and losing all sense of direction to fear.

At Legolas' call Turgon sprang forward with the speed and force of a godly wind. The lesser of the mile closed in quickly as the horse defied the power of the detouring wind. In the eyes of the Orc, it was too quick for him to see in focus. A white and gold speck flickered behind the trees, and in time too soon to flee he ran only a very short distance, terror-stricken, until a grand horse shot in front of him at lighting-speed, and he was staring at the point of an arrow-head.

"Aren't we hurried." Legolas sat high in Turgon's saddle, ready to leap down in a flash if the foolish creature decided to run again. "You have nowhere to flee. Put down any weapons you hold."

The Orc, petrified to death, trembled under the piercing Elvish eyes that burned with intensity, for in rest of his fair face was complete composure, and it mirrored the calm of a storm. He shook, squeaked, and darted away frantically.

But Legolas was on the ground and at his heals the instant he stirred. He ran swiftly and strongly behind him, until the time came where he was at just the right closeness. He kicked into the air and slammed his boot into the creature's back. The Orc tumbled with a pained cry, and Legolas landed gracefully at his side. He kneeled his left leg upon his spine and balanced himself with the right, taking the rope he snatched earlier from Turgon's saddle and tying the Orc's hands behind him. "It would appear you have never ventured through these parts before." The creature snarled in the dirt. "A little bit of Silvan hospitality—" Legolas pulled at the unbreakable rope around the Orc's wrists and tied a very tight and capable knot. The Orc cried out under his severe pain—"Welcome to Mirkwood."

Niélawen emerged from the trees and sat tall upon Nessa with eagerness and anticipation as she entered the clearing where the Elven dwellings lay, those grounded and those high up the beech trees.

Villagers walked calmly and gracefully in and around their homes, keeping to themselves, unknowing of her presence. The Silvan settlement was resilient but beautiful at the same time, and its dwellers moved like spirits. It was an image that she had missed, for the atmosphere of the Last Homely House contrasted so differently. Some noticed her and regarded her with a smile, and so she waited further with the small evidence of acknowledgement, hoping Legolas or Celahir would emerge from the grand Hall at any time and take her in their arms happily. Her hopes faded into mild disappointment as no one appeared, and she further beckoned Nessa toward the stables.

Beige-clad Elven archers in a small but sure number stormed around the corner of the raised mound that was the Elven King's Hall, marching towards the line of trees that surrounded the settlement in a half circle. They ran passed swiftly and calmly without regarding her, and disappeared stealthily into the forest.

"Niélawen!"

Running toward her came an Elf of silvery-gold hair and a gentle, familiar face, brightened by a broad smile. He opened his arms and stood upon his toes to reach her in her saddle.

She embraced him gladly, and leaned forward over her saddle to exchange words at eye level— or close enough to it. 

Celahir chuckled. "You have been gone too long!"

"I feel the same."

He cupped her long face in his hands and smiled with pride. "You've even changed!"

She laughed bashfully. "It has been a month, Celahir. Only a month." She looked toward the trees where the archers had scrambled through shortly ago. "What is the commotion all about?"

"An invading Orc from the Western mountains was located within our boundaries. They have gone to retrieve it from our capturer. It's ludicrous! Twice there have been wandering Orcs since you left for Imladris."

"Twice?" She gazed at the trees anxiously. "Who found this one?"

"Who else?"

Niélawen grinned knowingly. The question was as obvious as asking who had also retrieved the first; that is, if she noted correctly the most proficient hunter in Mirkwood. "He has been busy, then?"

Celahir snorted. "_Bored_ more like it. And far too damned irritating for such an age."

"But you are the younger one," Niélawen retorted with an arched brow.

He straightened indignantly with a frown and pretended to be distracted by something else, apparently unable to find a suitable word in his defense. 

Niélawen suddenly sat erect in the saddle. "Here they come!"

Celahir turned to her abruptly, his bright long hair swaying like a streak of gold as he did so. His grey eyes were wide, but his brows furrowed to make for an interesting expression. "My you're a sharp one." She had likely not seen anything, but instead must have heard their presence for nothing stirred within the trees for a long while to come.

She flashed him a genuine smile and fixated her gaze to the wall of trees. At last a front line of archers emerged first, followed by a grand white horse she knew immediately was Turgon. Legolas walked at his steed's side, and the remaining units emerged with a bound creature stumbling at their heals. They all walked briskly her way, passing by without notice of her— save for Legolas. He and Turgon halted and allowed the men and the grimy prisoner to pass.

Niélawen regarded the bloodied and bruised Orc with interest. He looked up at her in response with his dreadful amber eyes regarding her strangely. At first there was fear— it seemed that there was something unknown he sensed from her— but suddenly came recollection. Even through unimaginable exhaustion, he smirked at her, and cackled under his breath. One of the archers pushed him forward gruffly, and they proceeded. She did not see from him again.

Nessa stirred, and Niélawen looked back immediately. Legolas, soiled by smears of earth on his face and hands, stroked the bridge of the dark horse's nose, and though he always enjoyed giving Nessa affection, other things tugged heavily on his mind, and he seemed distracted. "You're back early. No one was expecting you for six more days."

Niélawen blinked her green eyes, taken aback. "That's a horrible greeting."

Legolas gave her a sharp, interesting look, neither offending nor light-hearted, but his bright eyes changed so drastically from it that she couldn't help but take it into consideration. He stared after the host of archers and the bound Orc with an urge to follow. He patted Nessa and strode off suddenly with Turgon's reins in hand. She reached out her hand to him, but her fingers failed to grasp his pale green shirt.

"Legolas!"

He turned back sharply, noting his mistake. He kissed the back of her soft hand before continuing. "We will talk later." Still distracted, he had never even met her eyes when he referred to her.

Niélawen frowned as she looked after him sadly.

"Perhaps he is busier than we know." Celahir squeezed her hand. 

"Mm," she murmured grimly, not in the least bit accepting of this notion. Taking Nessa's reins she veered her in the direction of the stables. "What a stupid hobby he has."

            Legolas crept his way passed the highly structured stable doors, and from mild sunshine he entered into the warm building lit by gentle torchlight where the glow from outside could not spread the expanse of the stable. He stepped over the layered floor of soft straw and grass and looked to one of the corridors. The stable was a wide structure with many passages that were fitted with several accommodations for the horses of Mirkwood, a number of those bred by the people of Rohan. The far left end of the building was his destination, and here were found the most prestigious of horses in their possession. 

            Dim ribbons of grey, mid-afternoon light shone through the two narrow windows in Nessa's stable quarters and gleamed over her dark, lying form. As he fully rounded the corner he found Niélawen seated against her body, clad in a loose, brown broadcloth tunic with her traveling trousers still on, and her long fair hair, wavy and energetic, dangling over her shoulders. She was bent over a piece of parchment lying against her tilted legs and a bolt-size helping of charcoal handled by her small, dexterous fingers. Her work was intently done, and she did not take notice of his approach. Nessa lifted her head from the ground and her beautiful keen eyes spotted him, and only then did Niélawen stir slightly without peering up. Legolas stopped a few steps from her seated form.

            "Fine hunting?" she inquired expressionlessly, her eyes never leaving the paper.

            "More or less." He stepped across the floor, heavily cushioned by great masses of straw and grass. He sat himself down beside her, and gazed at her work. Roaring falls tumbled over soft cliff sides; full trees shed leaves from their branches, raining down on a majestic city of Elven craft; and a narrow path weaved around a mountainside at the right of the picture, done with the same detail as the stunning structures in the distance. That was her way of thought and action— all things had equal significance. Always. 

            He sighed, and whispered in longing, "_Imladris_." 

            Finally Niélawen peered up from her artwork. Her smile was very faint, but present nonetheless. Legolas stared into her rich green eyes and beheld her face. "Let me have a look at you." He gently held her chin. He smiled, and there was great pride in his deep cerulean eyes, and something else, much deeper, that went unnoticed. "_Vanima_. You never cease to become more beautiful with the passing days."

            Her reaction was unusual this time. There had never been a day that passed when she was growing up where he missed the opportunity to praise her loveliness, and when a compliment arose she often grew red, even if bashfulness mean accepting it as the truth. But this time she snorted, and her eyes— the place where she held all her true emotions— gave an impression to him that triggered some aggravation. 

            "You're clever at disguising," he told her sternly. He tilted her chin so she faced him. "But I see right through your façade. I wish you would get over it."

            Her eyes went dramatically wide. She was still pretending. "My, my— you're angered by my modesty!"

            "What you speak of here is not modesty!" He paused with a frown. "But you don't speak— you _snort_."

            Niélawen gaped suggestively at him, and Legolas was not roused by her attempt to unveil what she thought was his error, so he, too, leered on with his impenetrable ability to focus. Time dragged by very slowly as the mute stillness ensued for too long.

            "I won't hear of such things from your mouth again," he finalized with an authoritative tone. 

            She bit her cheek and craned her neck around reluctantly. She indicated bitterly with her hands to the pale lines of scars among those on her face and arms, all of them white slashes upon her sun-kissed skin that, to her, were as visible as white on black. "You tell me why I have these," she muttered in a low voice, "and then maybe answers will deter my mind from the ugliness I feel."

            Legolas covered her hand in his, and spoke with the same sternness, "Then I am sorry you still feel the effects of a false illusion." He squeezed it gently, and murmured, "Because you're perfect in my eyes." 

            She leaned in to him and laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as she felt them sting. She was growing more sensitive about the topic as the years passed.

            "Tell me about Rivendell," he suggested, discreetly changing the topic. She was immensely grateful that he had done so. 

            She shifted and found a suitable position in the crevice of his arms. "I did many things there. I read, mostly— everything I could grab hold of from the shelves of Lord Elrond. I'm twice as smart now." She managed a faint smile. "And you'll be glad to know that I meditated many hours of the days and nights. No more lashing out."

"I'm glad."

Looking up, she scrutinized Legolas with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes as he gazed at the roof placidly. "But I learned many things during those long evenings alone. Incredible things…" Her voice drifted off. She was grinning under the tilt of her face.

"Tell me," Legolas said softly, absently dosing in the stillness.

"I will show you."

Legolas felt a tug at his shirt— forceful and puzzling, grabbing in a back-forth motion. He looked down in alarm. Thin air, and nothing else, grasped at his tunic, steadily now pulling until he sat up in response, wonder and bewilderment in his eyes. He turned to her sharply, and her eyes focused calmly on his shirt, until she looked at him with a smile playing on her face, and all movement ceased.

She bit her lip and laughed. "I realize that your shirt was an interesting item to demonstrate on, but that's beside the point. There is more. I have developed numerous improvements. But I cannot show you here, at this time."

His lips moved to form words; he failed, unbelieving that there was more besides the rare craft he had witness before him. He gazed into her eyes, unmoving, and she did the same, all expression fading from her face in discomfort. "Then I will not ask," he whispered unsurely, though he certainly was eager to know. "What other news from Imladris?" 

She sat up, timidly studying his expression for a moment before she picked at the straw at her feet. "I met Estel. You remember him, don't you?"

He nodded his head, and she was glad to see life return to his eyes. She felt at ease, and smiled thoughtfully. "He asked me about you, inquired if you would come to visit him soon. He remembers you even from a young child. He has grown up."

"Little Estel," Legolas smiled, chuckling to himself in remembrance of the past and the foolish fun he had with the once young boy in the company of his older brothers.

"Well he is not little anymore, Legolas," she laughed. "He is tall, and dark, just like his people. And his eyes— whenever I could sneak a chance I would just stare into them. I could tell so much by looking into them. He seems very wise."

"You and eyes." He smirked and shook his head. "It's an obsession."

"And if only you could appreciate what I do!"

"If it means lusting over men and their eyes several years my senior, I doubt I am missing out on very much."

She punched him in the ribs, a blush subsiding in her face with fierceness still lingering. "May I finish, now?"

He nodded his head and wiped the grin from his face, crossing his arms over his chest. Pestering her was one of the greatest enjoyments he got out of his days with her.

"I saw him far too little to feel to such a stupid extent— he spent many days by himself, or with Elrohir and Elladan. He left long before I did, just randomly like he always does, Lord Elrond told me. But I will have you know that for the few times I was in his presence, I saw a likeness of you— I could tell you two both love life the same way. It was incredible. Once he left, I knew I had to return home. To see you."

He sighed, watching her deeply as she shyly turned away from his gaze. He stroked her cheek. "I love hearing that." Looking abruptly at the window, he leaned in to plant a brief, affectionate kiss on her cheek and rose. "But I must go now."

She touched her cheek where his lips had been, smiling to herself with gladness. "Where are you going?"

"To have a word with my father." He started off, but halted. "You made it home in time for the Winter Solstice— today is _Yenearsira_. Because I am sure many of those attending tonight will love to hear of your experience in Rivendell, I would hope that you don't miss it, or I can make a promise now that I _will_ hunt you down tirelessly to be sure of it." He gave her a half-smile, and walked off briskly.

Niélawen beamed after him, and shuffled closer to Nessa. The horse perked her ears up, and her owner nestled her down again. "Just me, love." She sighed and looked after the place in which he departed. In moment's time as Nessa's breathing became steady in pleasant sleep, she climbed to her feet, taking her sketch with her. She walked through the lonely corridor in thought, touching her face with a distant gaze, recalling his words to her as she traced the bumps of scars on what would be a perfect face. "_Vanima_,he says." Her hands dropped to her waist, and her stride quickened. "Soon enough, anyway."

            "Come in."

            Legolas entered his father's room and closed the door silently behind him. Thranduil was seated at his desk, intently writing with a quill. The room was pleasantly lit by torchlight and by the crackling fire in the hearth at the side of the room, and light danced warmly upon the dark wood panels of the walls.

            "Yes, Legolas?"

            "Niélawen is back," he began carefully.

            "Ah yes, I have heard." He looked up with a slight smile. "You do not need to inform me."

            There was silence, save for the scratching of the quill against the parchment. Legolas drew himself up.

            "She enjoyed Rivendell very much. She would be glad you asked."

            Thranduil put down his quill calmly, his fair face sullen. "This is why you have come, then?"

            "It's about time to finalize this quarrel. I wish for this bitterness between you and her to end. She deserves more from you." He exhaled sadly. "She wants a father."

            "I am not her father." Thranduil stood to his full height and pushed his chair aside. "She will not have a father. She once had a place to return to, but now it's too late. You should have followed my advice when she was young enough."

            Legolas strived hard to find the words he had rehearsed in his mind earlier. "I wish to know what have you to say of Lord Elrond's decision, then, since I know I have his support."

            "The business of Elrond Peredhil is his own."

            "I think his business should be motivation for your bitter heart!" Legolas raised his voice, his eyes ablaze. "I have never heard from you an ill word of Elrond, or Estel. You respect them. What are you afraid of? Why can you not see what he does?"

            Thranduil pursed his lips, shaking his head doubtfully and holding back on words he dared not utter. For a moment there laid a glimmer of compassion in his eyes, though there was still resilience out of pure stubbornness, and Legolas' spirits were still raised, thinking he had reached a spot within his father. Thranduil stared long. "Because you will get hurt."

            "You are afraid for me?" 

            His father was unyielding to his beliefs. "You know the price of losing what you hold so lightly in your heart. You know the price of the effects surrounding those who love you. "

            "I _am_ risking everything. But to this day I am very pleased by the outcome."

            "Use your head, Legolas! This day will be among the last of those that you place all your hope in. These glorious days will come to an end, because she is a mortal, and eventually she will die." His body relaxed and he looked despaired. "That is the truth, as bitter as it is. Either this will be her fate, or else a destiny that was placed before her since the beginning will lead her away from you. Either way, in the end you are going to be alone. And it is not the only reason for worry." He sighed and his forehead wrinkled with trouble. "She holds great knowledge of our secrets and the arts that have helped this land flourish from dark times. She knows everything; all that cannot come into the hands of an enemy. Her presence here is suspect to worry— it always has been."

            Legolas breathed through his nose and looked away. Wisdom and caution made his father a victor of the truth. All _he_ had in defense was hope. "I do not want to fight any longer."

            Thranduil rested his hands upon his son's shoulders, and they shook as he searched for the strength in his fingers to grasp. Never had Legolas seen his father so vulnerable. "Nor do I. But I have only ever acted on love."

            "You cannot easily correct the mistakes you have already made. She is twenty-one years of age by her kin's standards now, and she has never felt ease from you. You will not even look at her." He gave his father a meaningful look filled with grief, and turned to leave. "End it if you love me as you say, because I love her the same. There is still time to try." The door clicked softly behind him, and his leave was calmer than the deep unease and resentment he carried with him.

            He treaded down the hall and made his greatest effort to feel at ease for the remainder of the day and in advance for the following evening. As he rounded the corner he followed the trail of a tall woman near his height, and from the way her lean body moved and her walk proceeded as a natural strut, his heart leapt and he advanced into a run. On his way to her side, he noticed a bunched pile of thin green pieces clenched in her right hand, but was uninterested.

            "Néla!"

            She acknowledged him with surprise, though was happy by his presence nonetheless. "Legolas, I'm glad I found you."

            He smiled, but looked her over and frowned. "You have not begun preparing for tonight. We cannot be—"

            "I require only twenty minutes to bathe and dress. Plus, an additional five to…" She squeezed the objects in her right hand. "…just for something else." She blinked her green eyes, and though she tried to look it, there was not even a hint of innocence in them.

            "Whatever it is you are doing," he growled impatiently and took her by the arm, "you must do it _faster_. I should not have to remind you. You're—"

            "A big girl. Thank you for the reminder, but you're not better off yourself." She eyed him and a smile grew on her lips.

            He released her immediately and prepared to turn onto his corridor. "You are not dressing me this time, either. Eliminate that damned idea from your head forever, because it will never happen!"

            Her smile widened to a broad grin, and she waited silently with a gaze far too knowing for his liking. 

            "No." He curved his lips to distinctly outline the word. She looked on with little expression, but for the smirk on her face. "Will—never—happen."

            "I have always liked you best in green." 

            The folded shirt of a pale jade dropped onto his bed. She beamed at him triumphantly. 

            "It is such an easy decision. Lucky for us you hardly have anything."

            Legolas glowered. "No, lucky for neither of us that we're in this situation. And I don't care about clothing. It's the last thing on my mind. Now go."

            "Why?"

            "You have had your fun now _go_!" he said loudly.

            "But I am not finished." She grabbed at the bottom of his shirt and began pulling it over his body. "The faster you take your hunting grubs off the faster I will leave."

            Reluctantly he removed his shirt, and to enrage her he threw it at her face. She made a distorted mess of her features in disgust, and tossed them to the floor. He looked at her with furrowed brows and reached for the shirt lying on his bed. "Nice face."

            "Nice stink."

            "Do you need to bathe me too, then?" he snapped, his voice writhed with sarcasm.

            Niélawen grinned, looking over his built upper body and enjoying what she saw. "No, this is fine enough for me."

            "I should very much like to see how well you enjoy being stared at shirtless," he said, and his voice muffled as he slipped on the green shirt, made with fine silk that sat on his body gracefully. "Eventually I will get even for all the years you got accustomed to all this skin."

            "You look wonderful." She meddled at his collar and long-sleeved arms and Legolas rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he watched her smile grow wide. 

            "Shouldn't you be doing your hair or something of the sort?" When she did not answer— and instead hummed a melody— he gazed around the room impatiently, anxiously watching the torch on his wall beside the door, imagining it was the sun outside, growing dimmer as evening drew nearer. His eyes roamed to the chair alongside the doorway, and he stopped. A crumpled cluster of long, oval-shaped leaves were scattered there, next to another, smaller pile of a potent bleaching plant he knew only a little of. "What is the Bleothyl for?"

            "That is my business."

            "This is my room."

            She groaned. "Grow up." She backed away and headed toward the door, taking a last look behind her. "Like I said, you look irresistible. But you need a change of trousers." With a wink and a smile, she brushed the leaves upon the chair into the palm of her hand and departed.

            The main hall and the dining room were never quite as luminous in years before as they were that evening. In fact, there lied an intriguing combination that occurred on the walls and the ceiling from the warm light of fire crackling slowly in the fireplace or flickering upon the wicks of candles. Shadow and light danced against the pale walls and intricate ceiling that were meant to symbolically represent the end of the lengthy hours of sunlight that dominated morning, daytime, and evening; and the darkness depicted the coming of a shadier season with less warmth offered from the sun. Winter was never as dreary as it seemed, and it was truly the only time of the year the Elves were immensely appreciative of the warmth and prominence of the little light they received in a day. With that, gatherings were commonly indoors, where a cozy fire could be easily manipulated, but once congregation had its turn within the Hall, many wandered outside where the greatest display of Silvan music and cheer could be seen and heard beneath the stars. Winter was a season of festivity and gathering, and all were convinced that nothing was being lost in the following months of frigid, blowing wind and empty darkness beneath the stars.

            No one missed the evening of formal festivity unless the excuse was of great urgency; and as time waned by without sign of Niélawen, Legolas grew uneasy. Conversation took his mind off of her delay, but he was reputable for being remarkably focused on duty and other significant thoughts.

            "Legolas."

            Legolas cringed at the voice, and turned around from his facing direction of the two-door entrance to the main hall. Oronar smiled before him, forceful in its own sick art, and Legolas remained expressionless and uncaring.

            "You seem distracted, my friend. I don't suppose you actually expect her to come, do you?"

            Legolas crossed his arms tighter where they sat over his chest, and he felt manipulative enough to return the fake excuse of a smile. "A reward of such beauty is worth any delay."

            Oronar's fair face glowed with irritation, but he chuckled— phony, yet again. "Would you care for wine? You might like to not set yourself apart so much by lingering close to the doors."

            "Perhaps later." Legolas looked away uncaring, ignoring his other remark. He heard nothing after that, and assumed Oronar had retreated soundlessly, and he was gladdened by it.

            Celahir and Celaeglin walked in front of him, blocking his view of the door. Celahir leaned into Legolas, and whispered, "You look troubled. Everyone can sense it."

            Legolas raised a brow to the taller, sterner version of Celahir—Celaeglin— who casually sipped at a goblet of red wine. "I suppose you, as well, are here to lecture me about being foolishly dependent and selfish?"

            Celaeglin shrugged his broad shoulders and blinked his bright grey eyes. "Me, Legolas? Goodness, no, I am at your side to join you in anticipating a stunning entrance. Though, also to make sure the young one doesn't put his foot in his mouth again." He gave his brother a hard, meaningful stare, and spoke with muffled words as he drank. "Always does."

            Celahir smiled bitterly. "You should enjoy yourself, Legolas. You are wasting away the evening!"

            "I told her I would be her escort, so I am waiting. She knows I will wait for her." He sighed, ready to endure another half hour if necessary. "She will be here right away."

            "The wait will be worth it." Celaeglin stood resolutely at Legolas' side. He wanted to be among the first to see her enter.

            And after approximately eight minutes, neither he nor the others were the least bit disappointed. 

One of the two doors slowly and hesitantly creaked opened, and a flowing dress of an off-white tone swayed over a pair of dressed feet that entered first into the darkness with skilled discreetness. Niélawen's hair was an elaborate bundle atop her head, half of her golden curls draped against her back, and her dress was as equally sophisticated. Contrasting stunningly with her bronze skin, it exceeded the simplicity of a plain dress but on her it was no more than a formal piece of art. Her long sleeves, her high collar that brushed straight across her collarbone, and the bottom rim of her gown were embroidered with a flowing vine of a glimmering silver thread that added so much to her simple dress, and against her shapely waist the soft fabric fit perfectly against her form. As she stepped into the light and further approached them, Celahir chuckled with delight, and they saw her glistening lips curve into a bashful smile. 

"_Aer Arda_," [Holy Arda] Celaeglin murmured in awe. He leaned into Legolas, who still wasn't sure whether or not he had lost his breath upon setting eyes on her radiant presence— he had never known such a feeling till that moment. "She has never looked like _this_ before, has she?"

Niélawen blushed madly, and fidgeted nervously as she stopped before them. "I am not hard of hearing." She took one of the unruly strands of hair dangling from her mop and twirled it around her finger, and this feat seamed to curl the hair even more. She looked to the distant groups of Elvish men speaking amongst themselves, and suddenly grasped Legolas' arm. "I'm the only woman here," she whispered severely.

"Many other are outdoors. There are women present, just not here. Once we eat, everyone will be called indoors right away." Legolas took her arm, and he led her into the center of the room. Celaeglin and Celahir followed close behind, Celaeglin silently pointing with adoration at Niélawen behind her back.

A fairly loud rumbling emanating from her abdomen caused Legolas to look abruptly at her. She grasped her stomach with a faint scowl. "No word out of you. I'm starving and tense like you wouldn't believe."

Legolas smiled and escorted her to the dining table, and finally seeing the tardy guest, Thranduil called for the feast to begin.

            "…And that is why I am a far better warrior than Legolas." Niélawen swallowed down her fourth glass of wine as the table half-filled by loyal listeners and bystanders roared with laughter. "I have now to stand the test of good looks, but he definitely is a pretty one."

            Legolas rolled his eyes from the opposite end of the room and snatched his own goblet from off a small round table against the wall. Celahir chuckled under his breath. 

            "Are you going to take that from her?"

            "She is drunk." He indicated to Celahir accusingly with his glass. "_You_ let her."

            "Of course she isn't! She is not slurring her words or speaking… _overly _foolish." He grinned. "At least she is an honest drinker."

            Legolas finished his wine with a fierce gulp. "Yes, but it's my fault that I have been feeding it to her since she was four. Now she is so good at concealing it you can never tell the difference." With a grim face, he strode towards the table.

            Niélawen looked up from her seat and smiled sheepishly. "Hello, Greenleaf!"

            Legolas addressed the others politely. "Excuse the interruption, but the young one has had enough fun—" He pried the wine glass out of her hands—"and enough to drink for one night. Come on, Néla."

            Niélawen laughed merrily as Legolas escorted her from the table, arm linked with hers. "Ohh… that was fun." He brought her to where Celaeglin had recently joined Celahir.

            "Are you having fun, Niélawen?" Celaeglin inquired with a smirk.

            She brushed out wrinkles from her off-white dress. "Yes I am indeed." She looked to the musicians in the corner of the room aside the fireplace. "I want to dance." She randomly grabbed Celahir by the hand and pulled him into an open space. 

            Celaeglin chuckled, but Legolas just shook his head. "What a mess," he muttered.

            "What a beauty!"

            He frowned. "That, too. It's unfortunate that she's so untamable."

            "She's a woman." Celaeglin watched as she laid her head upon his brother's shoulder as they slowly danced to a tune that was far too lively for her mood. "Celahir tells me she has not received any nightmares for… five years now?"

            "Indeed— five of the most peaceful years in my life. I hope that stage is over with. She started having out of control fevers just before the dreams ended, and though she would never admit it I knew she was hallucinating, as well."

            "What a pity." Celaeglin set his hand on Legolas' shoulder. "She is wonderful. Make sure you do not neglect the time she has. Mortality is a gift, but it's brutal when it comes to love."

            Legolas pretended he did not understand his words, but the chances of his despair and fear showing through were impossibly high. He simply nodded, and Celaeglin left.

            The musicians in the room's corner ended their song, and began to play another tune, one of a slow melody that was sweet and harmonic in the tranquility of the hall. Legolas stepped through a small group of Elves debating about "grimy Dwarves" and came to Niélawen and Celahir.

            "Legolas!" Niélawen's face lit up. He was glad to see in her eyes a growing soberness.

            He turned to Celahir, and nudged him out of his way. "My turn."

            "Such a fair fellow," Celahir retorted sarcastically.

            "I am the one who taught her how to dance." He smirked, but eyed him with a challenging glare.

            Celahir patted his shoulder and kissed Niélawen's hand, departing from their side.

            Legolas wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her close, taking in her gentle scent of evening stocks. He led her in a series of slow movements. She never looked away from the warmth of his eyes. 

            "You are a steady drunk," he teased. "I'm so proud."

            "And you are too concerned for your own good." She leaned into him and her cheek brushed against his. "I have been thinking. I want to go further than Rivendell on my next journey."

            "The Misty Mountains are already too perilous for you to travel so frequently. I would hate to let you go further than the safety of Imladris."

            "Not even Bree? There are people like me in that village—" 

            "You aren't like them," he interrupted sharply.

            She was silent for a moment. "But they aren't Elves."

            "Please don't," he whispered, and closed his eyes as her skin radiated comforting warmth to him. "Just stay."

            Niélawen brushed her hands against his long, platinum hair as her fingers grazed his upper back, just as he would always do to her when she let her waist-length hair fall loose against her back. "Someday…?"

            He braced her close with a securing arm behind her, not wanting to let her go. He didn't have to. He didn't. "Someday."

            A firm hand fell upon his shoulder. "The night late. May I steal her for a last dance?"

            Legolas looked around. Thranduil's face was warm with a friendly smile, and he felt Niélawen stir in his arms as she gazed apprehensively upon the King.

            "If the Lady wishes, of course." Thranduil held out his hand to her.

            Legolas gave her a reassuring nod as she looked at him uncertainly. "You are a popular one this evening."

            Niélawen accepted the King's hand. Thranduil gave his son a wink, and escorted her closer to the music. Legolas was left to stand by himself.

            "…You look wonderful," Thranduil said to her, and he took her in his arms for a customary dance.

            Legolas watched, silent and still in the emptiness around him. He was perfectly content with being the ignorant and the ignored, and the pleasure he took from seeing her smile in his father's arms was greater than the powerful sensation of pride he felt the moment she stepped foot into the hall.

            Twenty-one years; how many he had left with her he could not ever begin to assume. Every second was valuable.

             Thranduil spoke something to her, then gently pinched her chin, and Niélawen laughed aloud. She exchanged a few words, looking at ease, and together they glanced in his direction. They laughed in unison, and Legolas smiled from the opposite end of the room. If there was one thing his father had that could not be compared, it was his charm.

            The music died down, and the guests and friendly advisors of the hall gathered for a last word indoors from Thranduil as Niélawen strode back toward him, smiling broadly but with heavy eyes.

            "Sleepy?" Legolas asked.

            "No," she said weakly. Her smile vanished. "Searing in a scorching fire and sweating like an animal. And I feel nauseous."

            His brows furrowed in concern. He wrapped his arm around her and led her to the door. "From the wine, you suppose?"

            "Not the wine. Definitely not the wine." She wiped at her damp forehead. "Perhaps I am a bit worn out."

            He touched her cheek where the large, white scar on the left side of her face was slightly swollen and blue. "You're bruised."

            She shrugged carelessly, seeming far too weak to care. He brought her into the pitch-dark hallway, and offered to bring her to her room. "No need, Legolas, but thank you." She stared into the darkness, and her eyes focused on something beyond the shadow. She smiled faintly. "That woman will help me find my way. Good night, Legolas."

"Will she now?" He thought it was a joke, but he was soon confused as he gazed into the emptiness— and it was just that, in his eyes, anyway. Perhaps _he_ was the one too tired to be focused. "Tread safely. Don't make a wrong turn, I won't come to your rescue." He re-entered the dining hall and approached his father, who was concluding his thanks and appreciation, with a fine helping of his endearing charisma. They all burst into merriment and laughter, and applauded to their King. As they laughed to themselves and even began to fan out toward the outdoors, Legolas went to his father's side. He looked at him for a long time.

"Thank you." 

Thranduil smiled. "She means too much to you for my ignorance to endure. What is important to my son is important to me just the same. And I enjoyed her company very much."

A sharp scream echoed through the halls and into the dining room, rising above the hoards of laughter. The room grew silent in alarm. A mournful cry— sad and wounded— filled the air. The voice was Niélawen's— in happiness, despair, and in rare occurrences of pain, it always seemed to be the same to him. 

"Niélawen?" Celahir cried softly, his voice seeming to falter. He was almost too terrified to shake himself out of a freezing stance. The others were stunned into silent uncertainty.

"Niélawen!" Legolas yelled. He darted out of the room, Celaeglin, Celahir, Thranduil, and numerous others followed strongly behind him, the same fear flooding through them, as well. 

"Find the sentry!" he heard his father order.

Legolas entered the dark hall, following his ears through a state of blindness of panic, grief, and the darkness that swallowed him. The worst thought that entered his mind was that he would not reach her on time.


	7. Keener, Faster, Stronger

            It was all shadow and whimpers of anguish.

            Legolas ran hard, surpassing the speed of those behind him. He cleared corners without knowing why he had chosen to follow the corridor after the next. He thought he was following his ears— that was, at first, his method— but as he soon realized, there was something _deterring_ him. His hearing became obscured, and part of his conscious thought was absent. It was something he had never felt before, and he was hearing Niélawen in all four directions. 

            But he wouldn't stop.

            "Where is she?" he exclaimed aloud as he ran, much to himself as to the others. His memory of every path to access every hall was diminished. He suddenly did not know his way around his own home. Finally he halted, looking around him hopelessly and feeling very weary of mind all of a sudden as he came to a stop. "What is this _nonsense_?" he muttered furiously. Every wall he looked upon had the likeness of those he had already passed through.

            "We have been through here already, Highness!" one of his followers cried aloud.

            Legolas breathed, clenching his fists in a pulsating action. He could only shut his eyes in thought. And that moment one mere component of his logic struck within him a thought. "This must be a hoax. I do not know what force is deterring us from reaching her, but I know we have not yet passed through this hall. I can feel we're close to her." _They had to be_. He walked forward, holding great composure that had the others wondering aloud.

            And so at first he went alone, for the others were too filled with uncertainty and doubt in him to follow in his lead— it appeared to them that he was merely wasting valuable time. Legolas closed his eyes as he went, walking like a blind man, though guided by another sight or sense that was not offered by his eyes or ears. He followed the long path of the corridor, and as his heart grew more troubled as he proceeded every step was a release from some invisible force inside his head. He began to run as he looked ahead to what he knew for certain was his last corner, the cries and breaths of anguish growing ever closer as he went.

            She lay at the doorway entrance of her room, her body frail and her knees closed to a tight, protective knot. Her dress, in few places, was torn by struggle at the bottom seams. She saw him there, rushing to her and cupping her face in his hands, but she was still very distant in mind. Her cheeks were flushed though the rest of her was deathly white, and her entire body was dampened in a cold sweat. 

            As he knelt beside her, she grasped his arm with an unstable hand and desperately pulled him close. Her eyes went dark and were empty, and she drew tears as she began to cry in fear of something she stared at ahead. As Legolas met the line of her gaze, he found that there was nothing to be seen, and his worry only amplified.

            The scattered companies met at their adjoining corners and slowly moved for a closer look, looming over the terrified young woman suddenly aged in deathly fear, and the desperate Elf that fondly held her in his arms, pleading with her to speak. She opened her mouth, but the only words that came out were frantic declarations in a language he could not understand, nor did anyone else there know.

            "Niélawen! Niélawen, stop!" He cradled her and attempted to pull her eyes from whatever it was that she looked upon with such terror, but he gave in to her strength in fear of hurting her. "Come on, Néla. Please." He pressed his forehead to her temple, feeling her pulse radiating against his skin, and he murmured over her cries, "_Sedho_…_ sedho_." [lie at ease]

            He then turned to the others wrathfully, feeling strong, irate emotions overpowering him from distress. None of them would help— they were all afraid. "Go away, there is nothing to see!" He stood and beckoned them away forcefully, yet he still felt a strong urge to lash out and coerce them away violently with all the strength his fury would allow. Celahir stepped at the front of the line and more gently did the deed for him. As Legolas regained his bearings he slid his arms beneath Niélawen and carefully lifted her trembling body through the doorway of her room where he laid her on her canopy bed with the quilt of off-white satin and green beech-tree embroidery. He laid his large palm on her damp forehead, and a frigid sensation ran through his fingers. He helped her beneath the covers and pulled them close to her chin, wrapping them closely against the outer walls of her head as best as he could. He then closed the door, and left the candles and torches burning brightly before he laid himself down beside her with his head against hers and his arms around her quaking body beneath the thick layers of blankets. And he sang to her— The Lay of Nimrodel, and the same melody that had soothed her from a chill, death-like state on the night he found her in the heartland of Mirkwood. Her sleep, for a while, was peaceful.

            Legolas was motivated awake. The room had grown dark— nearly every candle and torch had dwindled to a weak flicker— if any light at all still lingered upon their wicks. Instinctively he guessed the morning was young by the new standards of winter's light. The same hand that had awoken him moments before shook him again gently. He peered up and Niélawen watched him from the comfortable nook in his shoulder.

            "Light the room," she whispered. 

            He drew himself up from the warmth of the bed and reached for a small torch lit by a small remainder of flame, and made his way to relight the burned out candles. As he passed across the room, she sat up abruptly.

            "Wait."

            He looked at her and froze, peering around him curiously. His long golden hair shimmered in the light of the torch, and the red glow flickered upon his face as his eyes scanned the area around him.

            Niélawen's eyes, too, shifted in the darkness. "Do you see it?" she asked softly.

            He sighed, for by her composure he knew there could be no severe danger— only a feeling— and he shook his head to her. "No. I see nothing."

            Niélawen emerged from the blankets with more courage as light burned livelier in the room. Legolas did not set all the candles aflame; only a few, for he still wanted to preserve some darkness to encourage sleep for them both. He then returned to her bed and sat beside her.

            "They never leave," she said unhappily, wrapping her arms around her body as she felt colder outside the quilt. The long sleeves of her dress were thick, but a chill still lingered in her blood. "Nor does She."

            "Who?"

            "I cannot tell you that. Not yet." She looked at him with some anxiety. "They want me back, Legolas."

            "What did you hear?" he asked carefully, knowing the things she witnessed with her eyes were of a topic already dismissed. "Tell me what was there that none of us could sense."

            "Words," she whispered. "Just words. They dealt to me a fate of death and suffering, and of evil. I was the perpetrator of it all, and a very significant part of these horrible things." She laid herself down upon her pillow and stared at the roof. "Will you show me a map of the realm East of the Anduin tomorrow morning?" He agreed to that, and they both settled into sleep.

            Dawn set in quickly, and Legolas had slept little after the awakening in the darkness. He left in silence upon the first hint of light, and giving her a fond kiss upon her forehead he departed her room without a sound.

            The end of the corridor in which Niélawen's room was situated was inactive in an early stillness. He walked slowly up the elevated hall, grief lying heavily on his shoulders, and as he lifted his head he found the shadow of an individual lingering at the corner far ahead. Oronar's burly figure leaned against the wall, his grey eyes watching him intently as he proceeded. He glanced down the hall to where Niélawen's door stood, smirking with both interest and detest, and vanished around the same corner he had come without a word spoken.

            Legolas stepped beneath a hazy grey sky, overwhelmed by a cool gust of wind against his face. The grass, as he walked, was brittle beneath his boots, and a white, shimmering dust coated the cowering grassland; evidence of a frost that had chilled the woodlands overnight. He walked further out into the frigid wind, dressed still in his shirt from the previous evening. He was, of course, untouched by the cold, just as his kin were standing amongst their homes under the dreary winter sky, unaffected by the chill. He moved to the neat, earthly dwellings close to the forest's edge, where his people wandered in peace amongst the trees or walked with numerous companions in the open. 

            And there was an unhappy silence about him that he had only deeply recognized at that particular time. Laughter of the young ones, he recalled sadly, had ceased some years ago. Everything was beginning to change— never were the comings of winter so desolate and bitter in Rhovanion. Grey skies year round hung over the lands more often than naught, and because his people, in numbers now of growing few, were slowly departing with the kin of the West, the land was becoming empty with time. He felt the dread of misfortune soon to come to all the earth.

            He missed the children and what Mirkwood once was. When the days beneath the forests of the land were once dark and perilous, it was always about survival, never just living. Everyone was growing weary, and the Havens were becoming an escape to many of those whose time did not yet have to be over. Alliances were starting to fail, and hope was dwindling. The Elves were losing that hope— how could the other inhabitants of the world see it, too, then? Indeed, the passing time would formulate great changes in the world, and likely a great rift in the stability of humanity. He wondered if he would find the courage to stand against the troubles that would threat Middle Earth, and fight for a world he was destined to leave behind when his time was near.

            Legolas climbed a strong ladder of wood and silver rope, rising the expanse of the great beech tree that dwelled Celaeglin and Celahir. He scanned around him as he climbed, watching as the number of tree dwellings steadily increased as he ascended. Mirkwood's forest was not nearly as exquisite as the radiant land of Lothlorien, but it reflected a grandness of its own. Every dwelling had it's own unique architecture— some had winding stairways from the ground instead of ladders— but they all had pale meadow-oak exteriors, and were private, cozy, and beautiful in their own art. The beech trees, too, grew immense in size and strength— but once again hardly near to the extent of Lorien's woods. He reached the half-point of the tree where a sturdy platform was at the last step of the ladder, and from there was a winding flight of stairs, beneath it a small, simple building— Celahir's own laboratory as well as Celaeglin's own armory. Legolas proceeded up the steps, and reached the top of the beech tree and the interior of the dwelling. 

            "Lovely, winter is upon us," Celaeglin declared flatly, greeting his young Lord. He was particularly fond of horses, and because much of his own skill training was based on his cavalry expertise, harsher weather meant a lesser resistance for the horses. "How is the young one faring?"

            "Making up for what sleep she missed." He slumped himself down on a velvet sack that seeped into every crevice of his body— the brothers called it a "chair," in whatever form of craft it aimed to be. "Where is Celahir?"

            "Investigating. Many of his plants and formulas have gone missing, so of course he is still on his outrageous search that, pathetically enough, began at daybreak. " Celaeglin offered him a drink. Legolas declined. "You're tired, I see."

            Legolas buried his forehead in one of his hands, and muttered, "If only you knew. I cannot stop… _thinking_. About her… about all of this."

            "I could try to understand, if you'll let me." Celaeglin plummeted into his own "chair," drink in hand— most likely wine, but Legolas could not note the content. "I could help."

            Legolas exhaled, and for a time there was silence but for the whistling of the chill wind outside the windows. "She's drifting from me."

            "Where is there for her to go?"

            "Literally?" Legolas looked up at him grimly. "East, most likely. Though she will not tell me. 'Not yet,' she says."

            Celaeglin murmured in his glass, shaking his head. "She is not leaving, then."

            "You cannot be sure of that."

            "She is an honest woman. Compassion runs through her blood and though she is skilled at hiding it, she cares for others more than her own self. An indecisive person such as her is frightened for the pain she may cause to others if her decision is wrongly made. She is not hiding from you. She is burdened with the heavy weight of uncertainty and confusion, just as you are." He leaned in curiously. "You have not seen it, then?"

            Legolas observed him inquiringly. "Seen what?"

            "She loves you."

            He peered around him, arching a brow and showing he was clearly hesitant about the statement. "And I care about her the same …"

            "Legolas!" Celaeglin exclaimed in an exasperated manner. Legolas was taken aback, and the offense in his eyes was priceless. "Believe me, you are not foolish enough to miss what point I make now."

            Legolas stared at him long beneath his undone flaxen hair. He settled more into his seat, slumped rather uncomfortably and seated with his legs— the only support for balance in the uneven sack-chair— wide apart carelessly, and he appeared very weary. He stared ahead blankly, and he began to fidget with his hands. He did know— he just hoped Celaeglin wouldn't make it apparent to them both.

            Celaeglin gave him a stern and suggestive stare, frowning with some disappointment. "You're afraid."

            "Quit putting words into my mouth," Legolas replied sharply. "What reason do I have to be afraid?"

            Celaeglin opened his mouth to proceed, but withdrew reluctantly. He remained silent in what he hoped went noticed as a sign of defeat, because he felt he could say no more. Legolas groped the sack and hauled himself to his feet and approached his departure down the stairway.

            "Perhaps," Celaeglin spoke up softly, "time _is_ running out. I only offer guidance to what I see as forthcoming. I could help further if only you will realize the truth for yourself."

            Legolas paused at the stairs. At his feet, soft, snowy down drifted in a light amount from the grey skies above, guided by a faint breeze. "And I would say you are right," he murmured, and descended down the tree.

            Maneuvering around trees and dwellings, he strode briskly and fiercely to the entry he once passed through, not knowing why he felt so… frantic. His heart pounded within his chest like he was on a desperate chase, worn of all breath deep in his lungs, and losing the ability to mentally comprehend anything in his way.

            And there she was before him when he thought he could go no further. Blissfully radiant she seemed beneath the colorless sky, like a ruby upon worn stone, face lifted into the air with her eyes closed as she found appreciation in such a dim, unbefitting place for rest. But her hair, though it dangled in voluptuous waves, fell against her back darker at the roots than the platinum shine he was used to. She was also, oddly enough, dressed to fight— clad in Elvish-crafted boots of light weight, pale snug trousers on her legs, close-knit shirts of countless layers sheathing her body , and dark auburn vambraces upon her forearms.

            "What are you doing?" 

            She appeared undaunted in her moment of peace, but for her unceasing ability to take into acknowledgement all that she heard. "My hair, I can tell you have noticed, appears dark to you. Pretend it's the light so I do not have to explain."

            His brows furrowed in distortion. Her words were too randomly chosen for him to grasp a meaning.

            "How do I know that…?" She veered around, and the radiant laughter in her smile he knew from years of her benevolent presence puzzled him further. Her eyes stared through him with such knowledge and grown wisdom since the passing evening that he was suddenly both intrigued and intimidated by her leer. "You think strange things, Legolas."

            He shook his head dismissively, putting aside insignificant matters accumulating in his mind. "We need to talk."

            At last he noticed the bow and quiver she had kept so well concealed in her right hand. "We will talk later. At the moment, I'm feeling far too strong to tolerate the weak state trying to overcome me." 

            "That sounds familiar," he said quietly, approaching her with careful consideration.

            She smirked. "I think it's time now to show you what I am capable of." 

            "You aren't well enough."

            "But I have never felt this good!" And she surprised him next as she threw down her bow and her quiver carelessly, and removed a layer of her garments. She opened her arms suggestively before him. "What do you wish to see?"

            "Sparring is not a performance. No combat is."

She drew her hair back fiercely. "Today— here— it is. Unless you want to see all that I can accomplish in a challenge of 'first-blood.'"

            His sapphire eyes went wide, and his forehead was knit severely. He couldn't tell if she was being earnest or not. "Niélawen, you speak like a fool."

            She removed every other upper-garment layer until she was down to a single, snug broadcloth shirt with sleeves cropped half way— it provided too little warmth for her, he feared.

            Legolas was still. "And you are dressed like one, too."

            "I'm boiling inside with this alone." She grit her teeth, clenching and unclenching her fists intensely.

            He looked her over long and hard. There wasn't a sign of weakness or skepticism on her; her certainty was startling. She wanted to fight. She wanted to fight _him_. She wanted to show him all she could do, and part of him was concerned for her. He veered around sharply to a long chest against the sloped side of the Hall. They stood upon the sparring grounds, suitably enough, and he opened the chest to a neat arrangement of heavy and lightweight weaponry. He drew two weighty swords from within it and tossed one to her hilt first.

            A single sheet of her confidence was suddenly stripped as it fell onto the ground before her. She gazed upon the blade, second-guessing herself and suddenly what she was trying to accomplish by the behavior she couldn't seem to control. 

            He ran his hands lightly along his razor-sharp blade, trying to daunt her with his own self-assurance—he certainly did not want to fight. The edge left a white mark upon his palm, having almost broken the surface of his tough skin. "They are sharpened after every use; or every four days without."

            "Wait," she exclaimed. He watched her firm arms tighten up anxiously. "I can't."

            "I think you can."

            Niélawen bent over and picked up the sword, and she held her weapon before her in both hands, light but steady on her feet.

            Legolas swung his sword and charged at her promptly and gracefully. She blocked at the last minute. He smirked suggestively, but she was not treating it as a game yet and was still alarmed. He struck a second time— she parried from him once and then her blade absorbed the force of his second blow. He pressed his blade down hard against hers, aiming for a deep inspection of her eyes.

            They gleamed with fear.

            Any foe thrived on such a reflection of frailty, but his incentive was merely to teach her a lesson. There were strange things affecting her mind— he wanted to start by tracing some of them, and eliminating them altogether. If fighting is what she wanted, fighting was what he would give her, but clearly a piece of her good sense was lost because she was, after all, accepting an Elven warrior as her opponent. 

He struck again, following it with yet another blow. Each swing became stronger, quicker, and in harder to reach places. She continued to block each patient strike, and as soon as her confidence was raised he decided the standards, too, needed to be raised.

            He whirled the heavy steel in a spinning arc, and their swords clashed loudly as he drove against her with but a small bit of his strength. So far she was holding up the defense, and he wanted to see her attack him, instead. He accepted the possibility that she simply needed and wanted to vent her fury— as senseless as it was.

            But she was earnest and quick, and the defense she maintained was well controlled and not looking to be easily faltered. Finally she held her weapon in a more flexible fashion— one-handed— as Legolas did. Then she surprised him and quickened her movements even more.

            Snow fluttered around them as they beat against the cold wind in a series of supremely graceful movements. They looked like masters of the same art. The clash of steel became so loud and so strong that small crowds had lingered somewhere in the near distance, keeping far enough from the sparring match. Some murmured amongst themselves, watching the pace accelerate and the movements become complex and struggled— as though it was a fight to the death. 

            Neither gave in, and their endurance provoked one another further. Sparks sprang from the edges of the steel. Their movements were becoming too fierce and rapid to stay controlled for long— or so it was in Niélawen's case.

            Legolas swiped upward, close to her throat, but deliberately held back to swing low. Seemingly stronger, he knocked the sword from her hands upwards and out to the side. He held his blade at her heart, and he gave a half-smirk. 

            Niélawen cocked her head sideways. Something shone in her face then— fortitude, and a new found self-assurance. She stepped forward against the point of the blade, its cold steel slowly piercing into her warm flesh and the fabric of her shirt. "Are you ready?" she whispered, mischief in her eyes.

            "For…?"

            She snatched his forearm in a speed that rivaled that of light itself. He never saw it coming. With a firm grasp she pushed his sword bearing arm into the air and her fist connected with his ribs. As Legolas stumbled back in surprise, regaining a rapid loss of breath and receiving a sharp pain within his bones, Niélawen darted to the weaponry chest, and there she drew from its depths not one, but two swords. Legolas growled between his teeth as he watched her advance on him with persisting patience. 

            "What have I been missing all these years?" she chimed with a grin.

            "This is not going too far?" Legolas had to inquire carefully. He wasn't sure he liked the intensity in her eyes. 

            "Nay, Legolas. Because now I _know_ I can do everything! We can't end this now." She whirled the blades simultaneously in her two hands, and stepped lively in his direction. She swung the blade borne in her right hand, her left wielding hand following just as swiftly. Legolas was forced to block the two blades at once— her movements were so brief and harmonious with the rest of her actions that every two strikes was a single hit against him.

Niélawen would not let down her attack, and Legolas briefly relied on parrying every hit he could. The spar was beginning to enrage him. Her blade swiped close to his head, but he ducked, and veered away swiftly. He lifted his sword for an attack in behind, and she deflected his blade with one of her own without looking back. She then took the sword in her left hand and began her most well coordinated attack. Sparks flew as she hit with her left, moving her feet to obtain strength in the right, striking again with the opposite arm. The rotation had Legolas moving with more speed than her, but all in defense.

It was becoming too much.

He leapt back, bringing a valuable three feet between them, and watched as she lifted her two weapons, swung them around her, and came down at his head.

Bystanders gasped and cried aloud, looking away in noting that Legolas previously held a very vulnerable position. As they turned back in alarm, they watched the Elf as he held off her two swords with a strong fortification of his single blade, held flat along its side. Both of his palms held a section of the sword, be it the hilt or the razor-sharp blade itself. She came down on him strong, and he felt her push all her weight into the weapon.

He was not in the least bit taken by her immense strength, but he let go of some resistance and allowed her to move into him.

"Too far," he muttered through his teeth.

As he peered into her unusually darkened green eyes with intensity, his own eyes suddenly seemed to enthrall her. No person around them could tell why, or how he did it, but for a mere three seconds her attention was on him and only him. Her distraction provided a great benefit to him.

Legolas hurled his knee into her abdomen; an action he even felt was too far done, but was a course of action that was felt was needed. As Niélawen leapt back in pain she lost the strength weighing down through her swords and with one lift of his own, Legolas knocked them from her hands and they spun in unison into the air, landing heavily in the frozen grass behind him. He let his own weapon fall from his grasp as Niélawen looked up at him breathlessly.

"That is it," he demanded loudly. "No more."

"Why not?"

"You fight as though you are aiming to kill."

"That is always the aim in fighting."

He stepped forward. "A real warrior's aim never begins as an endeavor to kill. Real fighters only deter, and kill to defeat only if it is of dire importance."

"Some things I see little importance in." She clenched her teeth together. "And then some things I can't help."

He stopped abruptly, seeing the familiar darkness lingering in her eyes. And he realized immediately she was ready for the kill. "You promised this would not happen."

Niélawen leapt at him with a fierce cry. He let himself fall without resisting, but as they plummeted to the ground as a pair he grasped her arms and threw her over and above him, and he stood immediately. She got to her feet in quick timing, and she sprang forward with solid fists to his face and body, and he repelled each one with the strong front of his forearm, feeling his blood flow halt in his veins in the areas of impact.

Her blows were consecutive until he caught a flying fist, and shoved her backwards. As she regained balance she came back at him with a soaring kick that he was forced to dodge.

But as he ducked and side-stepped, her opposite foot stomped firmly into his chest, and he lost steady stance, falling back upon the cold, hard ground. Niélawen landed on top of him, crushing him with inhumanly strength in her thighs and actually causing him great pain.

By this time those who had stayed to watch were now frantically searching for help. The remaining did not know whether to step in and assist, or wait on the sidelines powerlessly.

Legolas grabbed her by the wrists to transfer her attention and strength to her upper body, and she released him from her constriction. He folded his legs against his chest and she was hurled back by his kick. She backward-somersaulted the same time he flipped onto his feet, and they stood motionless for a mere glitch in time. 

She was watching him closely, monitoring his breaths. There was madness in her eyes— she had passed the brink of control. He knew he could take her for a longer duration. He was stronger, and less vulnerable to weariness. He would never tire, but what he did not know was how long he could endure the match without hurting her in his defense.

Niélawen started into a run towards him, and she aimed low. As she attacked him, she ducked and kicked her legs strategically and swung faster fists than ever before—each time he managed to block. He was afraid of hurting her, but the empathy was far too inane for the situation and in consideration of the likely chances of injury she could inflict on _him_ if the conflict got any more heated up.

But suddenly she was wrestling with him, and they were making circles around each other, until she ran again— right passed him, and towards the line of trees ahead.

Everyone watched uneasily as she sprinted in wide strides directly in the line of a single oak tree of average size. She reached it head on, but did something they did not expect.

Fiercely and powerfully, she stepped off the tree, leaping from its bark and rebounding towards him. Shattered splinters of the trunk scattered in the air from the impact. Niélawen suddenly flew back with such shocking motion and speed that Legolas had not the wits to think about parrying. Her foot landed squarely against his chest, and he was knocked to the ground with her on top, momentarily winded and astonished.

He grabbed her aggressively and pushed her to the ground so that he lay on top, pinning her down. She struggled endlessly, and they rolled stubbornly along the cold ground.

Legolas was, at last, the one to settle her down, laying over her and fastening his legs around hers to secure her flailing feet in the best possible way. He pressed his body against hers, slamming her into the solid earth, until she gave in and stopped struggling. She shut her eyes and grit her teeth, squirming a few times beneath his body before letting go altogether. From around the bend came guards in a sure number, and they pushed through the small crowd to where their Prince lay.

Legolas looked up abruptly as they marched toward him, arrows drawn and bows strung, weapons all aimed at Niélawen's head. His blood went cold, and he gaped at them while comprehending what was happening. He looked down at Niélawen, who was glancing up at the distant tips of many arrows directed her way with sudden fear and confusion in her eyes. 

It had gone too far, and he had only one choice to make unless he was to let her be arrested. He drew forth a hearty laugh; low at first, but it steadily rose over the deathly silence around them. It was the only quick solution he could manage to find at the moment. The archers lowered their bows, exchanging puzzled looks. Niélawen looked at him sharply, staring dumbfounded as he issued forth a great laugh. But she noted its deceit.

She grinned sheepishly from beneath him, and it was enough.

The archers let their bows fall in frustration, and they murmured to each other angrily. They turned on the bystanders who had frantically summoned them, glaring silent vengeance. They stood aside and waited amongst themselves, letting their overwhelming anxiety settle. Many who had watched earlier slowly departed, save for those who remained to argue shamelessly with the sentinels.

Legolas steadily let his laughter dwindle and rested his face against her cheek as though exhausted by their playful exchange. "Look now at what you've done. I will not help you again," he whispered to her.

She nodded with regret in her eyes. 

"They came to defend me. They would have killed you, even without my consent."

Her lower lip quivered, and she nodded her understanding. "I'm sorry," she pleaded with her voice choked painfully in lament

Legolas lifted his head so that they were looking at each other. The coldness had left its mark upon her cherry-tinted cheeks, and he stroked the side of her face fondly in meaning, and he did not have to do much more than that to show his forgiveness.

Moments passed, and still they lied— whether it was due to their awkward position or the growing stillness that ensued their gazes upon each other. The deepness in each other's eyes grew bit by bit, and Niélawen's hands slowly slid up from the ground and she held them around his firm body, coaxing herself to not draw her fingers beneath his loose shirt. Legolas steadied his weight upon her, and their closeness was greater than had ever been shared. He bowed his head slowly until their noses touched, and as he aimed to reach her lips, they nuzzled affectionately, until their lips only brushed slightly against each other, but unfortunately went no further.

"Legolas!"

Legolas' head was rapidly lifted into the air in the direction of the voice, and he caught Celahir pushing through the guards. 

"Celaeglin told me you stopped by—" He studied them curiously, and the sentinels, as well, that were arguing with those bystanders trying to convince the guards of the misunderstanding. "What happened here?"

Legolas cleared his throat uncomfortably, and climbed to his feet. "Nothing." He looked upon Niélawen for a duration longer than what could have been counted as brief, nearly smirking in delight of their act, and strode off with Celahir. 

Niélawen peered after them as they vanished, her heart still spinning circles in her chest. She brushed herself off and walked in the opposite direction of the archers, timidly glancing over her shoulder at the strong company as she passed around the hillside, hoping they would stay distracted until she was out of sight.

She pulled her hair back from her face, as some of it had come undone in the wrestle, and she blew out a heavy breath of air. She rubbed her irritated eyes while she began to quicken her pace, keeping hidden a broad smile playing on her lips. 

Suddenly she felt she was being watched, and her body grew tense. She pulled her hands away from her eyes, and gazed ahead with agitation as she familiarized the tall, hardy shape of the last person she ever wanted to face on her own.

Oronar did not, at first, recognize her as he went along, but his blue eyes suddenly lit up with an unpleasant light when he did. Niélawen looked ahead as the distance closed in, and as he passed at her left side, all her senses shut down in apprehension.

She was nearly out of his reach when suddenly his large hand came upon her abdomen, a second hand wrapping around her waist. She halted as he whirled her around to face him, and he leered over her with some discomforting attention. She turned away uneasily.

"My morning has just improved," he whispered to her with a low voice. "You're wandering alone— even after the stir that's shaken everyone up around here?"

Niélawen pursed her lips. Her heart began to race again; no longer out of passion or adrenaline, but out of fear instead.

"Oh yes…that's right," he murmured. "You're a woman bound to your honesty. You never speak unless it's the truth. Would that mean that you have something to hide from me?"

She lifted her chin indignantly and spoke nothing to him. She could not meet his eyes— there was something she absolutely loathed in them, and unfortunately the truth was that he would certainly be well featured without them. Oronar's hand dragged up her stomach, and his light, warm touch through the material sent shivers through her body. He pressed his palm below her breast and he pushed her against the high slope. Trapped between the grassy wall and his powerful body, she shut her eyes and breathed sharply. He dragged his index finger up the center of her chest, and drew circles along her collarbone and as low as the high points of her breasts.

"Stop," she demanded firmly, finding the courage to meet him eye to eye. There was an urge within her to hit him— hard— but she knew consequences. In his case, they would not be just in the least. She could get away with such a thing against Legolas— as they had obviously just done— but not with him. The realization angered her even more.

He half-smirked. "I have a complaint concerning the state of this situation. An interesting course of action I see you have taken as the years have passed— I've monitored you since the beginning." He shifted against her. "One so beautiful as you can lure anyone she wants. Even royalty."

Her jaw line sharpened. "What are you talking about?" she muttered.

"Certainly, he was the first to have found you all those years ago. Hence, he gets your bed— but what for the rest of us?" He chuckled.

"Get off of me." She squirmed fiercely beneath him. 

He pinned her wrists against the slope. "You have no class to live in the House of Thranduil. You have never belonged here." He grabbed at her hair with implication, undoing it from the bunch atop her head. Her darkened curls dangled over her shoulders. "You are not flaxen haired as you try to disguise, and you are altogether no where near to the fashion of the people you call family. You try to be something you're not, but you have not fooled me." He grasped her jaw in his hand, squeezing it between his fingers. "You are nothing but a whore from the stinklands of the East. The only reason you are still here is the result of a mere bet. All out of pure glory of who's right and who's wrong. He sleeps with you, and what may seem like closeness is just competition…" He grinned derisively.  "And the pleasure that comes with it."

"Get off!" she screamed, and she threw him to the ground. Her intention was to run, but from his place below Oronar snatched her ankle and she came crashing to the ground.   

He crawled on top of her, holding her down by her throat with his strong force. "I can appreciate you for all that you are good for." He slipped his hand under her shirt and squeezed her breast with ailing intent in his eyes.

Niélawen cried aloud furiously, and all the strength she might have lost earlier due to weariness returned with thrice the power. She slammed her fist into the side of his face, prying his body from atop hers and shoving him to the ground, and as she climbed to her feet she clasped his throat and dragged him as she drew herself up— a task that looked virtually effortless. Her blood boiled to an unimaginable degree, and her anger and force upon him only grew. Her fingers dug into the pale flesh of his neck, and he grabbed at her hands in alarm

He paused his struggle and chuckled breathlessly. "You think you can hurt me?"

She hurled him to the ground and looked down upon him without an ounce of pity. "I can kill you." She landed a sharp kick into his side and kneeled over him.

She could break his neck. She could— there was suddenly nothing she wanted more.

She planted her fist into his face uncountable times, and blood began to stream from his nose and mouth. Her knuckles throbbed and were coated with his blood. Oronar's hands frantically groped the back of her shirt, steadily weakening as her right hand came around his throat and constricted so powerfully that she was close to crushing his esophagus.

But she was pulled away suddenly, and thrown to the ground. Five archers stared down at her, all hands holding her to the earth. They grasped her by the wrists, and a strong fist landed in her stomach to ensure she would stop moving. The last thing she saw was a closed hand coming towards her face, and then everything went dark.


	8. River's Treachery

            Footsteps echoed in the dim halls delved from stone and dirt beneath the earth. From below the hardy wooden cell door, a shadow crossed over the red torchlight beyond the small prison, and the long block of wood that fortified the entry was lifted. Three voices murmured in the Silvan tongue, and a pair of footsteps retreated back a small distance and stayed there nearby.

            Niélawen squinted as the cell door constructed from strong oak swung open, and a gathering of light that seemed massive against her sight pierced the shadows. Celahir and Legolas entered slowly, and though she could not see their faces at first, she knew them well by their contrasting short and tall figures. The door closed behind Celahir as Legolas sat himself on a chair in the far corner. She realized that Celahir held in his hand a small tray, which he placed against the wall. He had brought in her evening meal.

            She strained to see their faces in the dark, but her eyes had not yet adjusted from the recent exposure of light. All she could see was Legolas' hair glinting gold in the light that shone through the faults in the stone wall.

            "This was not my doing," he murmured.

            "Of course it wasn't."

            Celahir squatted at her side. He took her hand in his. "Niélawen, tell us what happened?"

            Niélawen looked to her right where Legolas sat in the shadow. She could see as much now as the dark outlines of his eyes, gazing at her beneath the weary tilt of his head. Out of shame she turned her head without a word.

            "We have Oronar's version of the account, but not yours," Celahir explained gently. "What did he do to you?"

            "So I _am_ the victim?" she asked solemnly with the given impression of reservation. "You would believe my word over his?"

            Legolas bowed his head in disappointment. Celahir squeezed her cold hand. "We know you well enough to believe you were provoked. The King will take our word; all that is needed is your plea of innocence."

            Niélawen folded her legs and looked down into her lap. "How badly did I hurt him?"

            Celahir looked to Legolas for an answer. 

            Legolas breathed in deeply. "You broke his jaw, and a small number of his ribs have been fractured. That is all but for a fair bit of bruising."

            Niélawen swallowed and nodded stiffly.

            "His father is not pleased," Celahir said. "He is convincing the King's council into believing you are a threat to the safety of all the people."

            "And he demands you are punished," Legolas added. "Severely."

            "What is the worst that could happen?" she inquired in a silent voice. "The crime is simply not worth execution and that much I know. I could be left in the woods to fend for myself, against all the cruelness that dwells in the deep places of the wild." She looked at Legolas. "It matters very little to me. That is how all this began." She made a bitter gesture against herself.

            Legolas rose to his feet sharply. "We cannot save you so easily by only our efforts. For once you are responsible for what becomes of you. This is your fate."

            She flinched, and slid up the wall. "Do not speak to me about fate. You don't know what reason I have to despair."

            "Neither do you."

            Niélawen held up her chin indignantly. Resentment and sorrow darkened her face as her thoughts strayed to a distant, dark place that she feared. "Leave me. Both of you, go."

            Celahir nodded his understanding, and kissed her hand briefly and fondly before rising to leave. He gestured to her fine meal, a customary courtesy in the prisons of Mirkwood even to the nastiest of enemies. "Do eat, Néla. You need the nourishment." The guard waiting outside opened the cell door for him, and he was the first to leave.

            Legolas stopped close to her face. She saw the dark lines of his jaw grow deep as he clenched troublingly. "You do not deserve this," he whispered.

            She peered into his eyes, the brightest things she had seen yet in the darkness of the small, lightless cell. "I must persevere here for awhile. The time may offer me a chance to sort out my thoughts. I will accept whatever hand is dealt to me here, if it truly is what I deserve."

            He looked upon her sadly, and turned to leave. She caught him by the arm.

            "Bring me the map."

            He gazed at her for an indefinite period of time, and nodded as the door closed after him. 

            Legolas pressed his ear against the grand oak door. Hundreds of voices echoed in the grand hall of the King's throne. Comments were unpleasant. Shouts would not cease.

His nails dug into the surface as he listened, and he felt the tension ever rising as the hollering voices reached out beneath the doors and into the secluded hall where he stood.

            He heard his father's authoritative voice rise above the others, and soon all shouts dwindled to nothing. There was brief silence reserved for Thranduil's address, but Legolas assumed well that his father was recovering from the unease that had lasted for uncounted hours.

            "The woman will not speak," declared someone out of turn in a deep, recognizable voice. Oronar's father sounded like the dominant figure in the room, and in many ways he was. There were more who supported him than Thranduil against the matter of Niélawen. Victory was very well his already. "I want justice. The stray must be penalized by the manner she deserves."

            "We do not yet know her story!" Thranduil answered with vexation. "This we have discussed— I will not judge the sentence before I hear her plea."

            There were murmurs all around the room. "You believe as much as we do, Majesty," Oronar's father began in a moderate, persuasive voice. "Your people risk everything to breathe the same air as the mortal. Their security and peace of mind is jeopardized with every day she—"

            "We have yet to know true peace in Rhovanion, Amras," Thranduil interjected in a deep voice closing in on the brink of self-control. His intonation was low, almost ominous. "Do not throw false facts before me. Those I despise are those who fear reality."

            "Fear?" Oronar's father echoed sharply, taken aback. "_Fear_? Of all who sit here this day, you, Milord, we see as the true victim of fear. If you cannot deal with her as she should be, there are many who will embrace suitable authority."

            Legolas slid his back against the panels of the door and moved further into the part in the doorway, peering inside from over his shoulder.

            "The method you see fit to punish her is inhumane, and it will not followed through to such likes. My word is the law and you will obey," Thranduil finalized. 

            Amras— tall, brawny, and grim— nodded his head with tight lips. "Then I suggest she is detained in your dungeons until she sees it fit to face her faults."

            "If the council agrees, then I will give consent to that."

            Legolas' eyes grew wide, and the rest of his face fell. Murmurs of approval scattered amidst the room, but as he looked upon his father, he saw a brave king stripped of his use and integrity by his own means, and Legolas' heart was further enraged.

            He paid no heed to a silent entrance, and both doors swung open and thundered like an eruption in the hall even against the hundreds of voices. All eyes were on him— looks of shock and of animosity, all as though the Prince suddenly had no right to breathe the same air as the lot of them. He strode to his father, returning what looks of disapproval he could to the unfaithful, and with his very presence dealing out some hope yet to those— like Celaeglin— who held the righteous and dignified support to the heir.

            Voices did not cease as he passed; in fact, they grew louder and more outraged. Legolas kneeled at his father's side, and he took his hand. Never before had he plead with him in such a way and so openly.

            "Do not let this happen. I beg you." 

            Thranduil's hand overlapped his. "Legolas," he murmured, meeting his eyes earnestly, "There is nothing more that can be done on my part."

            "What do you mean?" Legolas demanded, eyes raging with intensifying madness. "Are you not their King? Their choices— their orders— are powerless against your will!"

            "I have limits, Legolas. Moral limits." Thranduil was hesitating, for once in many years looking quite uncertain. "I have overlooked you too much, but the truth lies in this— my power is within rules and democracy. You have something far greater than that. _You_ will find a way to help her. For now she is safe. And that I have placed before you a great opportunity that, I hope, will not be undermined." He raised a brow, and leaned back against his throne.

            Legolas turned his eyes to the floor, chiseling away at his mind out of urgency for some slight understanding, but the strain on him was too great. He looked around him, seeing many uncountable eyes watching and judging them both as they exchanged words with each other.

            "Nay, there is nothing _I_ can do."

            Legolas stared up at his father, chin buried thoughtfully in his left hand as he gazed into the crowd with a subtle, suggestive expression playing on his face. And Legolas suddenly got the sensation that his father, though not meeting his eyes, was looking straight into his mind, and had already planned out a scenario that Legolas had not yet ascertained.

            The arrows struck center-point, one after another, in a torrent of speed and strength drawn from pure anger. The blistering wind and falling snow blew viciously against him, tugging away at his garbs and gusting his flaxen hair in all directions. But his eyes were keen. It was the only composure he still had. He finally lowered his bow of dark mahogany and gazed ahead with remorse, his body and mind weary.

            Despite the gracious conditions she would be given, she would still be confined to the prison of Mirkwood for the rest of her years if that was the ruling body's will, and his conscience would not let him forget it. He could not let the thought pass.

            He backed away, staggered one uneven step at a time through the snow that had fallen and blanketed the earth in a thick layer of near knee-deep, blowing ice. And he fell to his knees, weighted by a sadness and hopelessness greater than he had known in a long while. He covered his face with his hands, and dropped to the very depths of the snow until his lap was absorbed around it. He was a failure.

            Finding himself unable to understand what his father tried to assure him of, he began to demand cynical questions against himself for falling short of succeeding to the support of the one thing that actually meant the world to him. What could he do? 

            Nothing.

            All his power lied in the authority of his father, and his father had admitted to being powerless right before his eyes. His father was the one who set the rules for the people to follow, and was the honest judger of the ruling body. Legolas' existence incorporated the very opposite, when he was not to be the embodiment of his father's pride. Breaking the rules, living the free, long years of his youth, dismissing the laws of his household for whatever reasons his spirit and heart swayed him to their will…

            He looked up suddenly with an abrupt intake of air. He gaped around him in astonishment, grasping his bow and holding it close to his left breast. He had found it. He had found his answer.

            He stood immediately and ignored the weighty snow that clung to his garbs and boots as well as the tiny fallen crystals that glistened in his long golden hair. He set out through the snowy trenches to the entrance of the under-earth fortress, and his excitement was so overwhelming that his fortitude became the strongest influence over his body and mind, and had he been anything but as thrilled as that, his smile would have lit the deepest trench in the heartland of the earth.

            The map clutched in his hand crinkled in the desolate dungeon hall as he strode in long strides. The armor-clad sentinel, spear in hand, greeted him with a bow and Legolas eyed him carefully as he passed, the intensity of his devising mind causing everything around to be apart of his game— as though he was working against everyone but himself and the friend who needed him.

            The reinforcing lock upon the low-security cell slid open and Niélawen awoke from her sleep. Legolas entered briskly, and he crouched before her anxiously, glancing expectantly over his shoulder as the door shut behind him. From the corner of the cell he snatched a lamp, and lit it to its full light before he spread out the map.

            Niélawen studied him with a mystified look, and watched as the light from the lamp illuminated the map before them while Legolas held the light above their heads.

            "Show me," he murmured.

            Slightly agitated by his hasty manner, Niélawen tucked her lengthy, multicolored curly tresses behind her ears, and peered at the wrinkled parchment at her knees with careful thought.

            Her finger traced the expanse of Northern Mirkwood, working its way to the weaving Forest River. She followed the flowing stream, a thin line upon the paper, to Esgaroth a short distance away, and she paused. Her eyes wandered to the Elven King's Gate, tiny, mountainous forms on the yellowed paper, and her face dropped. She looked up sadly, feeling incredible anguish at leaving her home even in spirit. She refused to indicate further.

            He gazed at her long and solemnly. "Don't, Niélawen. You must do this."

            She said nothing.

            Legolas sighed, and carefully— nervously— placed his hand around her body, holding her encouragingly. She breathed in, closing her eyes as he stroked her arm in the attempt to comfort her. By now he could tell when grief was tugging at the far reaches of her mind, and only he could try to put her worries behind her. She could tell he had been outside by the cool, fresh smell that lingered on his clothes as well as the chill stroke of his hand, yet there was a great, radiating warmth coming from the touch of his skin. With a deep breath, her finger came upon the map once again, and she proceeded eastward from the Lake.

            Legolas held back the fallen sensation within his heart as she moved further from the South on the western boundaries aside the Anduin and proceeded Eastward. For so long he had always hoped she was a woman of Rohan, or of Gondor— any place of some dignity and strength. But as she stopped just South of the Iron Hills, he shut his eyes briefly, and feared the end of her search as well as the possibility of more yet to come.

            He looked upon her again, feeling her mind wandering, and he saw that she had indeed closed her own eyes, and was now trailing blindly downward along the map. Her index finger scrolled surely down the Carnen, following its winding stream, until she crossed upon open land.

            His blood grew colder as he watched the distance between their present location at the far eastern border of Rhovanion and the Ered Lithui in the Black Lands of Mordor close in. His thoughts scurried frantically, suddenly finding sense and resolution in her abilities being the work of evil from the lands of the East— and nothing frightened him more if the truth indeed lied in the warning of his instincts. He took her hand earnestly. "No," he murmured, shaking his head. "It cannot be further."

            Eyes still closed, she took her hand from beneath his and overlapped it with her palm reassuringly, and he calmed down. To his great relief, she deterred from the southern direction, and moved sharply eastbound. The dark shape of the Sea of Rhûn lingered beneath her fingertips, and it was upon the cluster of sketchy trees on the Northeastern corner of the dark water mass that she stopped. She tapped the forest in conclusion, opened her eyes, and nodded to herself.

            Legolas swallowed. "How has this information come to you?" He peered up at her. "How do you know this?"

            "I've seen it, but… my feelings have guided me. I suppose I do not know. I have little memory of it— if any." She sighed, and hunched over as though the stiff weight holding her together had finally been lifted. "This _is_ it." She stared at the map in silence. "My home…"

            They stared at the image of Rhûn before them in silence. The entire time in his mind, Legolas asked many questions to himself in the stillness. He wanted none of them answered— he did not want his life with her to come to an end so quickly. But he knew it would eventually come to that. His father had been right. All along he had understood with knowing so little. All along Legolas' hopes had been in vain. 

            Niélawen pushed the map aside and leaned against the stone wall. She peered at him knowingly. "Somehow I believe you had more reasons than one to sit here with me at this moment."

            He nodded and knelt before her, where in his eyes was intensity mingled with sadness. "What is it you want most?"

            She looked to the floor and showed through a smile she was glad in being asked. "To love. To be loved— unconditionally. I wonder if I have always had it, and yet I feel I have not yet seen and experienced all there is. But I suddenly believe now that something I have always wondered about has been before my very eyes all this time." She gazed into his face intently.

             Legolas regarded her hopefully, his eyes suddenly alight, eagerness quickly returning to his face. His feelings stirred wildly within him as her gaze upon him intensified.

            "All this time, I have dreamed of sisterhood."

            The warm feeling inside of him slowly diminished as his forehead creased briefly in disappointment and disorder. He looked to the floor and nodded acceptingly, though he wasn't at full peace with her words. One fragment of his heart lost its illuminating power as the truth was laid before him—she truly wanted to leave. No devotion of his could change that… 

            All the while Niélawen saw this trouble, and more, in his eyes and face, but she left it overlooked. "I only now have to meet that thread of my fate." She glanced at the map. "In the East is where it lies."

            "Then I shall take you there."

            Niélawen smiled gratefully and took his hand. He did not look up, fearing there was more in his face than he wanted her to see.

            His voice was hoarse as he spoke, but he did not make an attempt to clear his dry throat. "If we take the safe route to Esgaroth and proceed down the Celduin, it is a fourteen day journey to Rhûn by boat—"

            "No," she interjected grievously. "Nessa… I could not part with her, Legolas."

            He sighed. "Then we shall be confined to at least eighteen days if we trek by land."

            "So be it." She gazed up at him in confirmation, wanting to be certain he was truly so willing to lead her through the grueling journey. "We are going to go forth with this? Are you certain it will be successful?"

            "No." He stood to his feet, taking with him the map, which he rolled up and placed beneath his belt. He had many doubts, but if it meant making her dreams come true by returning her home, its worth was greater than any misfortune or sacrifice along the way. "I will come for you before dawn."

            Niélawen pressed close to the rough wall nearest to the cell door. For hours she sat in waiting, hearing silence but for the low, steady breathing of her prison guard. Through a crack in the stone she watched him, erect and alert, expressionless as a granite statue and watching everything around him. 

            An eager feeling stirred within her, and she took it as a sign. She piled her long hair into a disorderly bunch and peered through the fissure in the stone with great anticipation. 

            The guard stationed at the crook in the corridor of the dungeon stumbled with a groan and slid back against the wall as something solid and swift collided against a vital point along the back of his neck, and he slowly dwindled to unconsciousness. Her cell swung open hastily, and Legolas grabbed her frantically from within.

            "There is time enough to reach your room. You may only take with you small possessions, and few at that." Taking her hand in his, he led her through the dim hall, carefully stepping over the sprawled legs of the guard. "My apologies," he murmured to the snoozing figure.

            "Nessa and Turgon await us at the path to the Gate. Do not leave my side," he instructed urgently. "Never have you walked amidst the darkness of this land. Troubles wander in places within these walls as well as outside." A smirk crawled along his face, and she identified his enjoyment of the adrenaline charge. "We are safe nowhere, so we must move quickly."

            Stealthily and cleverly they shuffled through the halls above the dungeon wing, and though they were fortunate to have only come across one sentinel, she couldn't help but wonder where the rest had all gone to.

            "You did not hit them all into unconsciousness, did you?" she inquired humorously.

            "No questions," he muttered shamelessly, grinning half-heartedly. He paused at a corner, peered around cautiously, and he dragged her down the sloping corridor without having suffered a single faltering move along the way. Without warning, he shoved her towards a pair of doors, and she stumbled into what she sheepishly realized was her room. "Pack," he ordered.

            "Nice detour." She rushed through her wardrobe. "I could have found that useful growing up."

            "I never doubted the thought." Legolas glanced periodically through the small crack in the door. "Hurry," he murmured.

            Niélawen peered over her shoulder carefully as she tucked away numerous vials and leaf-wrapped packages into a brown leather sack. She grabbed little from her closet that contained fine garments in a plentiful number, and managed a last look at the long, off white gown she had warn but a couple nights before. With a heartbreaking sigh, she tore her eyes from the garbs she would never see again and shut them away into darkness.

            She stood in silence for the greatest time, gazing at the memories that surrounded her. She caressed the fine quilt of her bed and ran her fingers over the slash marks and dents on the delicate oak frame of her bed. There were even two dusty, broken sticks still in a candlelight chandelier on the wall. Nothing had changed since she arrived years ago.

            Legolas awaited her at the doorway, watching her as she neared him. In an instant, every memory of her past washed over her in a torrent of despair upon meeting his eyes— still untouched by age, unwavering yet soft in nature. In time to come she would never look into them again. Her eyes filled with tears.

            He left his guard upon the door, having watched her mingle in reminiscences of things of great significance soon to be forgotten forever, and it was inevitable that he was to share her grief in due time. "Come," he whispered, reaching out for her hand.

            She wiped her eyes and clasped her fingers with his. She passed through the doors, her emerald eyes still glistening with tears. "To think this is only the first of my goodbyes."

            Legolas swallowed grievously as he grasped the meaning of her words, for it was likely that he was the last of which she spoke. He forced the thought from his mind, and led her briskly up the inclination of the hall. He brought her to the corner that led away from her hall, and with a hasty check he insured it was a safe crossing to the end of the corridor. Two narrow green doors closed in ahead as they rushed through the unbent hall without a single branching passage along its barren walls.

            The crisp winter air brushed against her damp cheeks and burned at her eyes as she followed at Legolas' heals into the frigid snow. They darted silently towards the trees like ghosts, passing through barren space between the mound and the forest, and just as quickly into shadowy woodland. Legolas slowed as they passed deeper into the woods, and he paused to further walk at her side.

            "None will know that we have left," she murmured to him absently. "There will be no more to bid farewell." She gazed behind her, though there was no longer anything left to see but darkness.

            Legolas trekked carefully through the snow, taking her gently by the elbow and directing her in the southern direction. "Celahir will understand. The anonymity will go unanswered until I return…alone. I will be the first to tell him the truth."

            "He will be sad." Her voice drifted, lost in words that were bringing her closer to regret.

            "Look past it," he encouraged. "This is an end to one life, and ahead is the beginning of another. And you have my word to guide you tirelessly to the end of this one." He braced his hand against the back of her soft neck, and he stroked her skin with his fingers. "Come," he whispered, and led her off gingerly.

            They stepped through the passage of trees, and ahead of them the Forest River glinted like a silver stream of glass between two mounds of rock solid snow and ice. In the far eastern sky, morning light was breaking through the darkness, and in that place the sky was blue and faint, steadily growing brighter. Legolas beckoned her to stay put, and he took a long step forward, peering around the trees at his right. Niélawen rubbed her hands furiously, feeling the bitter wind on her bare skin and regretting the absence of some heavy leather gloves. While reflecting that failed idea, she looked ahead and across the churning water of the river where steam rose from its much warmer depths, and her eyes squinted to two large objects not far off on the other side.

            Like two lifeless debris of stone, earthen-colored and pure as white chalk, Nessa and Turgon awaited them in the bush upon the opposite end of the river between their present location and the bridge less than a kilometer away. And of course, if the bridge was near, the enchanted and heavily guarded entrance to the Elven King's Gate was just as close, if not closer.

            Legolas took her bag and leaned into her. Excitement was replaced by a slight inkling of apprehension, and she knew what he was about to say before he spoke it.

"Here now is where our presence fails by all accounts to go unnoticed," he said softly and urgently to her. "We must ride swifter than the wind— without rest— to the Mountains of Mirkwood." He gestured to the opposite side. "Turgon and Nessa are well rested, and supplied with twenty-days' worth of food and supplies. The only challenge now lies in carefully, but hastily, crossing the river." He grasped her arm tightly, the urgency in his face growing. "_We cannot stop_."

"I will be fine." She drew her hooded cloak over her head and wrapped it closer to her body. 

Legolas looked doubtful. "The water is will be cold, but you must concentrate on moving as quick as possible. I can guarantee that we will be spotted and pursued for at least two miles, but we can lessen the chances of a close chase if we move swiftly when it is of greatest importance." He gave her a firm nod, and without further delay they sprang hastily to the banks.

Legolas waded through the frigid water with little sense of the coldness. Not once did he look back— he was without time to do so, and his concentration was lying so heavily on his strength that he had not the wits to check her state.

Niélawen braced herself as she tread through the river with more reluctance and lessened speed. As she splashed through the shallow edge there was little effect on her, but as she hit a steep realm of the riverbed, an unforgettable pain that froze her blood in an instant shot through her legs and up to her waist and immediately rendered her stiff and frail.

She cried out as her blood continued to solidify quicker than hot water in freezing air, but she managed to guide her body through the strong currents with the pulling action of her arms in the air, though the steady loss of feeling was beginning to take severe effect.

Ahead of her, Legolas plunged his body into the deepest section of water, and he swam vigorously against the powerful movement of the river. Niélawen became faint as she watched the distance between them grow, and she made the most severe mistake of halting momentarily.

Her voice was raspy as though frost lined the interior of her parched throat. She inhaled and exhaled heavily, but her throat was dry and it burned to breathe in the winter air. "No," she muttered in alarm as her legs numbed completely. She shook them frantically, but the very attempt was as difficult as lifting twice her weight. "Legolas, help me!" she yelled.

"Swim!" he hollered with a brief acknowledgment over his shoulder, his face periodically bobbing in and out of the water. "You have nowhere to go but forward! Now move!"

Niélawen took in a deep, shuddered breath, shut her eyes, and ignored the immobility that had completely consumed her limbs and was gradually increasing in influence upon her entire body. She immersed herself up to the throat into the deepest realms of the water. A strangled gasp escaped her lips, and for a moment everything flashed black. Her head felt as though it was swelling from the painful cold, and there was great stress on her mind as her brain uselessly commanded the rest of her organs to stay in operation.

"Niélawen!" Legolas' voice was faint far ahead of her. He was now treading through the shallows, peering over his shoulder in haste. He tossed her bag to the shore, and looked to the high Gate imbedded in the mountainside, and his heart raced. "Come on!" he yelled to her, and his legs suddenly and unintentionally became in command of his whole body as he pushed back toward the deep, wildly churning river. "Swim!" he screamed as he waded through the water as strongly as he could.

From so far off he knew little of what he was watching. Niélawen drew in a breath as she absently treaded water, growing stiller and looking to be near hopelessness. No doubt she was more than just cold— her heavy garments added ten additional pounds to her light body. Legolas rushed further into the water, but judging by her state she would not make it much further and so it was likely he would not reach her before she lost consciousness in the depths. "Swim, Niélawen! You cannot stop, you have to swim!" he screamed frantically as the water rose to his shoulders. He glanced briefly toward the Gate which was visible ahead, and when he peered back, the water was still. There was nothing but vapor and dark, unrelenting currents in his path.

But the water churned beneath him, and a shadow lingered near his legs. Instantly relieved that Niélawen had clearly found the strength to make it through the most treacherous region of the river, he was still too panicked to be ginger with her. He snatched her from the depths by her hood, pulling her through the freezing water with only a small bit of her own effort wading them through. He swore under his breath as he dragged her through the shallows and over the bank. He forced her gruffly to her feet, but she could hardly stand on her own. She was half alert, but yet very distant, and suffering from a deadly shiver.

He took a last glimpse over his shoulder to the dark, looming Gate, staring fearfully at it as though it were some brooding storm threatening to spill over to a dreadful degree of inevitable power. With his perpetual strength he lifted her over his shoulder, carried her the short distance to the uneasy horses, and lifted her atop Nessa's back. He hastily wrapped a heavy blanket around her body, leapt upon Turgon, and with control of both steeds he led them away through the forest with unrelenting speed that he knew grimly would have to endure for the many miles that faced them ahead.


	9. Fugitive

Niélawen stared up into the swirling bleakness that was painted over her eyes. Shapely figures consisting of both light and shadow flickered upon her lids and appeared as waves of gold overlapping the darkness. She opened her hearing to the flat voices of woodland birds distantly calling as they soared in the light, and the gentle swaying of numerous bare trees that whistled in a refreshing breeze, which was hardly there at all. She breathed in deeply, and her throat burned like an iceberg scraping inside her gullet. Feeling a rise of air bubbling and itching furiously in the back of her throat, she emitted a cough that immediately slaughtered the brilliant serenity around her.

She opened her eyes, and was overwhelmed by luminous daylight. Her eyes, only at first, distorted her vision to her gaze above where a high canopy of dark, tangled trees shielded much of the potent sunlight. Tiny ribbons of light shone down through twisted boughs and bathed her in warmth even amidst the chill of winter. Her breath appeared before her in wisps of foggy air, and she remembered the coldness that surrounded her in hoards of white crystals that absorbed the sunlight like one enormous mirror.

She sat herself up onto her elbows with a good layer of soft blankets cushioning her, and she and stared into a flickering fire at her right. In front of the flames and potent waves of heat, hunched over in a plentiful region of showering sunlight, sat her companion with his back to her. She moved as feebly as a pathetic weed beneath an outrageous layer of quilts and attempted to shift onto her side, but appallingly failed to do so.

Legolas' flaxen hair caught the light as he turned his head ever slightly to the left, having heard her rouse. "What's wrong?"

Niélawen groaned and punched away the heavy quilts to freedom. "Your bed," she replied flatly.

Eyes still disregarding, he raised a short blade into the light for his own observation where the sun caught its unblemished surface. "I see," he replied tonelessly. "Yet you slept soundly." He returned to his work; polishing his damp weapons. He gingerly brushed a familiar piece of faded violet material over the blade surface of one of his beautiful, golden etched knives, appearing to be heavily concentrated on his task.

Giving up the attempt to change her manner of rest, she chose to observe the new place around her. Their things lied in areas close to the fire, but much of everything was at her left side, scattered almost carelessly as though dropped in a panic. There she found her dark trousers, the shirts she had worn the previous night in layers crumpled in a numerous heap, and even her fine leather boots lying carelessly atop her hooded cloak in a snowy bunch.

Her neck stiffened painfully as a dry swelling rose in her throat. They were, in fact, all the garbs she had worn the day before. She snapped her head towards him with an incredulous glimmer in her eyes, though she made an effort to be careful in her choice of words. "Those wouldn't be my clothes… would they?"

He paused momentarily, angling his head to one side. "That they are." He went to unsheathe a secondary dagger conveniently fitted in a scabbard along his rawhide quiver strap. There was something in the way he spoke— subtle, mocking laughter— that caused her to cringe dreadfully. She knew exactly what kind of humor he enjoyed enforcing against her…

She looked again at the scattered pile, and her eyes roamed below the quilts to the items she now presently wore. She picked at the oversized, heavy-knit shirt of light indigo and steadily lifted the blankets further, catching the slightest glimpse of a new pair of less than firm-fitting leggings. "These are not mine," she murmured to herself in confusion.

Being sharp enough to accusation, her eyes drew wide in alarm almost immediately. She peered to her side— through a gap in the pile of heavy clothes, she found her undergarments. _Every single piece_. She dropped the quilts with a horrendous expression growing more and more ugly on her face by the passing moments.

It seemed that Legolas had assumed just as much, for his shoulder blades shook with light laughter.

"Why," she began in a soft, slow voice despite her cross mood, "is it I see every item of my attire on the ground and not on _me_?" She picked at them, and frigid water dripped from every scrap of clothing. Many items were even torn, she soon discovered. "My clothes are drenched and look as though they have been mangled in the mouth of a wolf…_Legolas_, will you _answer_ me!"

He waved the small dagger in the air— still not yet acknowledging her. "I had to sever them from your body," he explained with some intolerance. He turned around on his hands at last and exaggerated a thoughtful expression. "I guess we are even then."

Niélawen pulled a blanket up to her chin, feeling invaded. "You're lying," she muttered, cowering down into her tunnel of quilts. "You wouldn't." She gazed at him hopefully, but he did not falter under her stare. She felt her face grow hot.

"You make it sound so horrible," he jested— she swore she had never heard him so deep in wicked delight of himself. There was a grin in the corner of his mouth as he spoke. He turned back around, and she could almost _hear_ the smirk playing further on his face as he spoke with his back to her, sheathing his weapons. "I promise it wasn't."

Her fingers tightened around the rim of the quilt until her nails left indents in the fabric. She couldn't control the blush that she knew for certain was turning her face a beautiful shade of red. But why was she blushing? He was merely her friend, though no more than a child it seemed. There was no reason for it. But there was definitely a reason for a little bitterness. Seeing him with his back to her, unaware, she felt tempted to slap him over the head…

But he got to his feet and strode over to her. In the back of his mind he hoped he could taunt her better this way, right in her face and allowing for no escape. The light violet cloth he used to shine his swords with dangled in his hand as he wiped away the dampness on his hands. "I found it was rewarding. Revenge is torturous, Niélawen." His half-smirk was shameless and pestering.

Niélawen rose from the depths of her blankets with unexpected swiftness and snatched the piece of material from his hand. She observed it for a moment, and glared at him irritably, waving the material in his face. "This is mine!"

"From a shirt of yours." He bent over her heap of drenched garbs. "As I mentioned already, nearly every piece had to be cut. And as you have noticed, everything was removed, though not necessarily severed." He cleared his throat and the grin was forcefully drawn away, though the clear enjoyment of her reaction still lived in his eyes. "You mustn't worry, I worked too quickly to spare a moment for enjoyment's sake. The matter was too serious."

"For you own sake I would hope it was very much so." She adjusted the over-fitted shirt on her body, closing the collar tightly around her neck and collarbone region. She managed to spare a second glare. "I'm afraid my trust has worn a little thin."

Legolas gave her an indignant frown. "Why? Is graciousness truly too much to grasp?" He moved off, angrily rigid, and began to individually shake out her destroyed clothes and shove them into an empty sack. He then shoved the bag into her lap gruffly and wandered off. "Get up."

She did not wish to further protest in the least, suddenly reminded with heavy-hearted guilt that it was her who had set them in panic upon their flee from the river. And she was being ungracious. She struggled to her feet to pack away the rest of her things, snatching her spare boots as she stood feebly. Her knees gave in beneath her with much surprise, but being resilient she resisted the tingling sensation growing in her limbs and walked around her mess of blankets with wobbly legs. As she moved in the open air of their encampment, her lower body shuddered from a chill dwelling deep in her bones. "Is this… normal?"

Legolas was pouring snow and water over the fire and he regarded her with little interest or concern. She had angered him. "If it is lack of feeling you speak of, then very likely. You have been immobile for half the day. But it will do you good to ride."

As she neatly folded each quilt and set the last upon a pile she had made with the finished others, she suddenly realized sheepishly that she had not yet taken into consideration their whereabouts— though she had studied the dark forest around her she was oblivious as to where, exactly, they stood. All about her she was surrounded by widely spaced oak and beech trees, bare, tangled, and stooping weakly, but she looked further on. She glanced behind her, and her eyes slowly trailed into the sky where the start of a great mass of stone and forest lay before her.

"We reached the Mountains!" she exclaimed in surprise. "But how? I was unconscious!"

"Nessa carried you reliably. And I led her." He parted his lips with his two fingers and whistled loudly toward the trees. "We were lucky that our trail carried us on hard-packed snow. Our tracks went relatively unseen. But if you will notice, the afternoon is late, therefore we must leave immediately." Niélawen heard the replying calls of two horses. And not only that… behind her was the gentle trickling of water, a song upon the rocks of the mountainside. She gestured in recollection to the stream that disappeared through the trees along the labyrinth of moss-covered boulders at the foot if the mountain. "Is this—"

"The waterfall that drifts into the spring? Passed those trees."

Her face lit up. "I have not visited those springs since I was four!"

He paused over the quilts she had skillfully folded together, becoming awkwardly still before taking the heap into his arms. A look she had seen earlier twinkled in his eyes yet again. She acknowledged this uneasily. The spring was, indeed, the warmest, purest body of water to be seen anywhere…

"I do not want to hear it, do I?" she muttered, her shoulders dropping as she blushed again. "I cannot believe the mess I have dragged myself into…"

"The river was cold," he explained, taking each word into careful consideration. "Shedding your clothes was not enough to prevent you from… It simply had to be done." He veered his eyes away.

Niélawen bowed her head in shame. After all he had promised her and all that he showed to prove his loyalty and care, she was still displaying an incredible amount of ungratefulness towards his efforts. It seemed that an outlook such as this was the deepest flaw in a relationships such as theirs, one that reflected the casual closeness shared by siblings. She wanted to apologize, to ask earnestly for his forgiveness— she knew he would do just that if their roles were reversed— but she had always felt as though she was grasping the role of the little sister. Such a feat had always been an awkward one.

"I looked after you as best as I could. I promise I had no other intentions," he finished quietly after a pause. His jaw was set and it appeared that he had to keep his eyes from crossing hers, for the resurrected fright from the previous night had subtly returned to his thoughts, unwilling to depart or vanquish the mark lingering still in his eyes. Nessa and Turgon galloped swiftly through the trees and came to a halt behind the snuffed fire pit. Legolas carried the blankets to Nessa's saddle and began to distribute a number of their supplies onto the backs of each.

"Legolas... " She frowned as she tried to set her words straight. "I know you would not—"

"Don't be ridiculous," he interjected immediately. "You were not naked at that time in any case." After he realized his bluntness, he turned away with a half-smile that she had just managed to catch.

Niélawen ambled away from him with an expectant frown. "Go on then, enjoy this little moment of yours. It'll be the last time I fall for your sympathy act! How could I, at any rate, even command a little bit of real concern from a dull, humorless— _arrogant_ defect in the Elven genus!— Which you _are_!" She tightened her hand into a ball, searching for the proper words to further use against him, but instead she grunted under her breath, recoiling her fingers as she went off into the trees, privately searching for the misty stream that maneuvered its way against the stony foot of the mountain.

Legolas fastened the supplies to Nessa's saddle and within Turgon's carriers, very much offended by her harsh assumption against him. It had been one of the first times he had unintentionally flustered the expression of his words, and it was almost wounding to think she would imagine his aim to be willed by anything else but faithfulness. As he finished arranging Nessa's baggage securely, he murmured to the dark horse in a low voice, "I suppose she does not need to be aware of _all_ that we saw." The thought was a good enough cure for his agitation.

Niélawen strode out from the cluster of tightly arranged trees, her hand clasped at the shoulder seam of her shirt, waiting to remove it, it seemed. "I've found it," she declared with her nose prudishly in the air. "And I'm going swimming."

He backed away from the horses. "Again?" he inquired dryly. "Have you not seen enough water for one day?"

"I feel well enough to go."

"No," he replied with finalizing intentions. "We are ready to leave."

She strolled away grudgingly whilst she began to peel off her shirt by its collar. He frowned uneasily— surely she was aware that there was nothing _underneath_ it but skin…

"Niélawen?" he called after her, expecting to have no other choice but to chase after her. "Did you hear me, Niélawen?" He set off through the trees. "Damn your persistence, woman," he muttered severely.

"Watch your tongue, Elf!" she shouted in retort. Her voice sounded from a significant distance, and it came to him as a shock that she managed to have fled so swiftly from him with such an easy start. "I'll take but a minute."

Legolas trudged through the snow, shallower underneath the dreary canopy of the woods, and soon the steam emanating from the pool was well in sight between the trees. The woods rustled not far off, and he snapped his attention that way only briefly. "Niélawen, we should go on without any more delay." He stepped into the clearing and found her already immersed in the below-ground-level spring, tossing away the leggings she had carefully held overhead as she dunked the rest of her body in the water. Her gold head disappeared into the depths.

He carefully approached the edge as her tall and fit frame fluttered underneath the surface, and he shrunk away slightly. He neither wanted to invade, nor make the situation uncomfortable... for both of them.

Niélawen's bronze face resurfaced, and a brief, vivid smiled glittered beneath the water pouring down her faintly scarred features. But it vanished just as quickly as she caught Legolas' outline along the outer edge. "You're really being selfish," she declared grimly as she made a small lap to the far edge, ignorantly disregarding him.

"Little black squirrels are the least of your worries here," he stated dryly. "Dol Guldur stands not far from this very place— yet you still deem this to be a _game_."

She peered back sharply, her almond-shaped pools of green watching him intently and without trepidation. The darkness of Dol Guldur certainly did not frighten _him_ in the least, unless there was need for the concern of _another_, one very beloved to him. Legolas was protective— manipulative, even, if enforcing the security of some significant other was crucial. He would neither leave her on her own in punishment to her unjust behavior, nor would he stay without protest. Groaning in defeat she waded toward the raised edge.

"Quickly," he said, looking calm but very observant while his keen eyes sought for some peculiarity lingering distantly in the trees. There was little movement in the bush, save for the nervous, mischievous squirrels that peered timidly through the snowy undergrowth. He wanted to leave the silence of the woods. Even daylight was threatening beneath the dark boughs of his people's forest, for he knew that their company was far too little to stand a chance of survival if anything went amiss.

She reached the perimeter of the pool and crossed her bare arms atop the snow to eventually raise herself from the depths. He held out his arm and she clasped her fingers around his gloved forearm where she eased herself slowly from the deep pool.

Quickly realizing her hastiness, she withdrew sharply and peered up at Legolas suggestively. She craned her neck to the side curiously upon seeing his concentrative expression being shattered by wariness.

"I need my _clothes,_" she stated in a whisper.

He faltered on his feet awkwardly. "Of course." He retrieved her scattered garments in quick timing and held them at arm's length from the edge.

Her pink lips curved into a smile, and the back of her hand swept the surface of the pool. Heated water spread in great heaps upon his leather boots and pant legs, and some sprayed onto his face. With good timing he managed to evade much of the water in his eyes, but what missed his face ended up dripping down the front of his grey and dark-green embroidered jerkin.

Her bubbling laughter rang out in the uneasy locale. "You are setting yourself up for humiliation! Put my garbs down and turn away, or this will only take longer."

He swallowed and veered away with his back to her. He shook his face in disgrace and crossed his arms over his chest. She was not easy to have around, not when the safety of their task depended on his focus. All it took was a little deliberate display of flesh and he melted like he was as hormonally imbalanced as a young lad in his prime… stupid. He was being manipulated by a mere _child_…

"That was actually nice while it lasted," she chimed breezily as she quickly fastened her garments on the cold, dry ground. Her arm fondly swept underneath his and she squeezed close against him with fondness. "Don't be mad, alright?"

He raised a brow, sporting a slight pout in his upper lip with his arms tight across his chest. The embarrassment that still lingered faintly in the glow of his cheeks made her smile.

"Come now, Legolas. Don't be bashful."

He stepped away from her reach, clenched his jaw securely, and edgily sauntered off without a word. She found herself smirking after him coyly as she followed his footsteps shortly after, recalling his display of nervousness around her. He had seen her nude enough times to not be uncomfortable by a situation such as that, especially since he had preferred to scorn her for the countless times when she was without care of such display. He had seen this very bold, untamed behavior of hers enough times to be able to conclude that she was "unquestionably raised by wolves." The preceding circumstances made her curious.

Trudging absently by herself through the snow, she murmured to herself in fascination, "He blushes."

* * *

They rode in silence for countless hours, enjoying the blissful warmth of the settling winter sun and their sudden spark of liveliness. Nessa skipped eagerly with every slow step, wanting badly to trot, whereas Turgon remained obediently under the lead of his master. In time to come, however, it was inevitable that Nessa's fervor would eventually rub off on him, and the two riders would have a hasty and uneasy ride until the enthusiasm of their steeds could be tamed.

Niélawen eased her mare and began to sing in light of her own mood. Legolas, who rode in front of her, smiled faintly as her strong voice carried with the light breeze, and the harmonious tune of the Song of Nimrodel that she sang brought an otherworldly change of placid delight to their slow going through the dreary forest.

Part-way through the song she paused, her rolling voice, still chiming with the same beautiful melodious ring as in the song, spoke up, and for an instant he thought she was still singing. "How much further?"

Legolas peered ahead with his keen eyes. "Three miles to the clearing."

"Hear that, love?" she murmured to Nessa, stroking her mane. "The plains are near."

Legolas stared ahead as he handled Turgon's reigns in his right hand. "I was unaware you knew the Lay of Nimrodel so well."

"As was I. Often my favorites were those I created on my own time, so it was never preferred by me." She paused thoughtfully, bowing her head with a smile. "Until I realized it was the fifth verse you sang to me the evening I was found."

His face grew pleasant as he drew forth recollection, and he nodded slowly.

"Why the fifth?" she inquired softly.

"Why the Lay of Nimrodel? It is common here. All know it, and all love it. Of course, the delight I feel when hearing it sung is not as strong as in those who know the story behind it as more than just a distant tale. I am not as old as you deem," he smiled. "It is but a tale of old in my eyes. Occasion never calls for it to be sung— sometimes the simple comfort it brings only needs to be felt. It was the first song that came to mind, that is all."

The delight slowly faded from their faces as time waned by in silence. After another hour, she turned around in her saddle, and beheld the image of the Mirkwood Mountains now rising as but mounds of dull green in the dragging distance above the grey forest. She looked upon it with heavier sadness. It would be one of the last landmarks of her greatest memories of Mirkwood.

Dusk settled in, and the sky was painted with crimson and blue. Night dominated the Eastern sky, but the West still beheld a perpetual glow of daylight. At last, Legolas pointed ahead to where the trees began to part. The clearing of the forest was no more than a mile's trek.

Legolas glanced over his shoulder to Niélawen with a triumphant yet challenging grin. He cried aloud to Turgon, and his white steed bounded forward with a ready speed that displayed every inch of anticipation he had contained since the beginning. Nessa needed no command— she followed their lead with a hasty leap, and Niélawen had but to maneuver her on through the now widely spaced trees.

The potent glow of the setting sun shone down against their backs as they emerged from the last of the heavily wooded area. The light behind them glistened over the contrasting coats of the two stallions as they halted beneath the open air, delighted at the sight and feel of freedom in the tall glades of thriving pasture, dotted by lingering portions of melted snow with the Celduin river flowing strongly nearby at their left.

Legolas sat tall in his saddle as Turgon stomped curiously at his own vibrant shadow. "The plains of Rhovanion." He grinned eagerly at Niélawen as they gazed across the glade. No doubt his competitive ego was ready for a stroke, but she was feeling more reflective than usual.

"I remember this place," she said happily. "It's the farthest you ever rode with me when I was young. I loved it…" In the back of her mind she also knew it was the farthest beyond the eastern forest region he, himself, had crossed, but she kept that thought where it was since she was inquisitively awaiting an answer to her first inquiry, though vague it was. He was often good at responding to such things, for it seems that she picked up the mannerism from him. After a short period of complete silence she turned to him, wondering grimly why there had been neither a response nor any stir from him at all.

Atop Turgon, he had swiftly and silently averted his attention back to the full woodland edge where the trees there flourished better in the full sunlight. The sun from the west glistened down between the boughs of the forest edge, but within the grey shadows that lied the heart of the woods, there was a thick, dreary, suspiciously calm darkness that had settled beneath the canopy of Mirkwood. His face was stern and alight with ferocity, his eyes steel cold and watchful. There was no movement to be sensed, even passed the wind that had dragged in eastward from the open plains. Niélawen was well aware that there was only one general company that could cause such a severity to be marked upon his face and body, and she knew in short time there was a hasty need of precaution.

Niélawen clenched the harness in her fist and went to veer Nessa around for her own careful observation, but Legolas' hand came down sharply and strongly upon hers, his fingers clinging around the leather vambrace on her forearm. When she acknowledged him with alarm, she watched his eyes as they intently scanned the deepness of the murky woods that stood beyond the reach of her own eyesight. He was not just searching with his eyes. He was listening.

It was then that she realized with more worry that she was without a feasible weapon but for her bare hands. Useless they seemed, for she had nothing in defense of something that was watching them from afar…

Legolas' body slowly turned its rotation to face front, but his face was still parallel with his shoulder so that one of his eyes still peered behind them. His eyes soon came across her waiting gaze, where in a single moment she caught a very brief and startling glimpse of his forehead creasing and his pupils twitching in alarm before he leapt from his spot.

She was given no further time to look back. With the hand that was pressed against her arm he thrust her off Nessa's back with great force as an arrow rushed passed her ear just before she tumbled onto the cold, dead, grassy bed. Nessa whinnied in fright— not only at the sudden attack but also the rotten stench that had risen in the air. With a brusque push Niélawen sent her away to safe distance, and she was followed closely by Turgon, who was also very much rider-less.

Niélawen scampered frantically on elbows and knees across the ground to a nearby tree that was thick and strong for cover. Leaning her back against the bark she glimpsed desperately to her side where Legolas had positioned himself against a sheltering tree of his own, and was launching arrows from his bow with great speed and accuracy.

"Manke naa ron?" [where are they?] she called to him loudly, frantically.

He glimpsed her way only briefly, pulling forth arrow after arrow and shooting down targets— a good number of them, it seemed, for this smooth movement of his did not cease for the sake of even a concise pause. She heard the distant squeals and hisses of fallen opponents.

She considered calling after him once more, but she held her tongue as he was suddenly forced to retreat behind his sheltering tree while several arrows breezed the surface skin of the oak. She went back to dragging herself by her elbows across the ground, her face well into the foliage, grass, and traces of snow as she went along, until she was spaced one tree away from Legolas.

He regarded her wrathfully as he jumped out from behind the tree for a second round of arrows. "Dartha nal!" he ordered loudly above the sharp, siren-like whirring of numerous airborne shafts. Many of them breezed passed his head, and out of his distracted state, one managed to nick the lip of his ear. He did not flinch, but was more infuriated—both at her and his foes. "Stay down!"

Niélawen boldly glimpsed around the stalk of the hardy tree. Behind oaks, crouching in the underbrush, or in the wide open space, Orcs heavily clad in rusty steel and decaying leather were assaulting and being assaulted in too overwhelming of a number for a mere hunting party. It had not been a chance meeting— it was likely they had been pursued. Most were armed with bows, but the glinting iron tips of many halberds were seen protruding behind branches and hovering unsteadily above bushes. With the definite possibility of bearing swords, as well, they were ready for close range fighting.

The spasmodic whirring of arrows spun in every possible direction around her. Evidently they had spotted her, and she was feeling desperate… and reckless. Dol Guldur had been let loose for the impending hours of darkness. They had to flee, she realized as she watched Legolas stringing one projectile after another with so much speed he looked to be managing his task blindly. The number seemed great, and evening would only promise a handful more.

She pursed her lips as she drew in many deep breaths through her nose. She could almost hear Legolas' voice inside her head, scolding her desperate plan and her indomitable persistence. But without further delay she sprang out from behind the tree and at Legolas where she swiftly unsheathed the dagger on the quiver strap across his chest. She fell back against his tree, leaning directly beside him as he fired an arrow before joining her side in bewilderment.

He eyed the dagger in her grasp, no more than the length of a woman's hand from wrist to fingertip. "No, Néla—"

"You're losing arrows," she stated, her delicate fingers folding around the pearlescent handle.

"I do not need your help!" he exclaimed.

She met his eyes fiercely. "Maybe you do." She took a step to the left side and bent across his body as she tossed the dagger in her left hand. It struck successfully at a closely approaching Orc just a few paces away. She veered back against him, her face level with his. "Come on," she grinned. Her hand grasped one of his White Knives from his back holster, and her bright jade eyes glinted excitedly as the fine-grade steel and golden-brass engravings flashed briefly in the light as she unsheathed it. Legolas eyes flickered fretfully. "It'll be fun."

He clutched her wrist. "We can only run," he said after much deliberation. "The number we face is too great." He grabbed her by the waist and quickly spun her to the left. He drew an arrow upon his bowstring and struck an Orc that was about to surprise them from behind the tree. As gently as if he was handling glass, he seized the White Knife from her grasp and sheathed it while eyeing her meaningfully.

On his order, they simultaneously leapt forward from the refuge of the thick oak, and Niélawen dashed onward to the fallen body of the Orc she had slain with the throwing dagger, while Legolas covered her from behind, firing what arrows he had and essentially managing to retrieve used ones as they went forward. In doing this Niélawen struck down five others who had dared to assail her in close range— some of those, in fact, fell without any contact from her whatsoever, but Legolas did not notice her otherworldly accomplishment. With Legolas' additional tally, their passage was virtually clear but for eight remaining Orcs.

"Go!" he ordered, and after she was well on her way down the hill and through the tall glades he sprinted behind her, outrunning a small number of badly aimed projectiles at his heals.

The light from the setting sun in the West was brighter in the open than it was without reach beneath he canopy of the murky woods, and so none pursued under the sky of dancing firelight. Peering ahead, Legolas could see Turgon and Nessa standing as still as monuments against the mound of bush they had taken to hiding. He glanced to his side where Niélawen ran at an equal pace, and she smirked at him with delight, looking back over her shoulder briefly. Mirkwood was vanishing behind them as they darted closer to the evening horizon. They slowed their paces to a brisk walk as they approached their horses.

"Here." Niélawen breathlessly returned the petite dagger to him as they stopped. He nodded his head in thanks. She leaned her forehead against Nessa, evidently quite exhausted.

"Do you need my help?"

"Huh?"

He strode to her and gestured to Nessa. "A lift?" When she said nothing, he added, "You look tired, that is all."

She chuckled hoarsely. "Well it never does much good to laugh while you run for your life." She swallowed a mouthful of air and nodded her head appreciatively, and brushed aside unruly wisps of hair. "Yes. Help would be lovely."

"We should ride out for a few miles," he began as he raised her onto Nessa's saddle, "before we make camp for the night."

He mounted Turgon swiftly and veered the reins in the direction of their destined course ahead through the plains. He looked long to his side at her windblown and flushed appearance with some amusement, and along with her garbs that were, in fact, his own which he had hastily packed as spares for her, she looked strong, worn, and naturally radiant all at the same time.

"You're staring," she indicated dully, and a half-smile curved upon her lips and darkened the dimples in her cheeks.

He raised a brow. "Can't I?" He issued Turgon forward with a cry, and led them across the plains.

Darkness crept quickly into the West from where it had already blanketed the East. They rode hard for many miles until the stars hung overhead and the chill winter breeze burned their faces. Legolas spotted a fair-sized cluster of dry bushes and bare trees considerably close to the river, and before they made camp they stood outside their temporary refuge and gazed at the Western horizon where the immensely long line of forest that could once be seen from afar was no more.

"It's all behind us now," Niélawen murmured wistfully, but without regret.

Legolas glanced at her for a split second from the corner of his eye. "Tell me how it feels to be fugitive."

"Much better, I'm sure, than the likeliness of being disowned by family," she replied with a laugh.

"The worst price may be that I will be bound to prison duty for a few months to come," he said distastefully, but without any concern. "That I do already on a temporary basis. Hardly a punishment at all."

"Spoiled child."

He chuckled softly and looked at her, finding himself staring at her longer and harder than he intended. Even at night her eyes were vivid and alive, especially as she regarded him over her shoulder, awaiting an encouraging response. "I'm very glad we are here," he said with the hint of a smile, and he turned Turgon toward the Eastern horizon.

Niélawen's smile broadened cheerfully and she gazed for a bit longer at the setting sky in the West before facing the darkening shadow lingering the opposite way. A low and unexpected rumbling in the pit of her stomach caused her to grin. She suddenly remembered how hungry she was.

"The lembas is in your side compartment," Legolas informed her as he reached for his own with thankful indication. He needed a bit of nourishment, as well. "Your ill-tempered gut is a fine reminder."

Niélawen observed the bread distastefully. "Do you suppose it is true that this stuff is better made in the south?"

He considered the thought for a moment, taking a single bite and restoring the flat bread contently. "Should I ever go to Lórien myself in the years to come, I suppose I will have to answer that." He regarded her humorously. "Though I'm sure not everywhere it tastes like tree bark. The Silvan are not renowned bread makers." He dismounted Turgon. "Come. We should set camp."

* * *

Niélawen sat cross-legged beside the fire, laying out her damp scraps of torn garments and staring blankly into the flame that glowed upon the healed slash marks along her bronze face. Above her, the stars were alight against a cloudless sky, and though the bush they settled in was closed in and dark itself, it was an airy change from the confined and dank forests of Mirkwood. Nessa and Turgon, however, could not bear a closed-in atmosphere, and so grazing and slumbering in the plains was where they chose to remain all evening.

Legolas treaded through the foliage and snow with an almost undetectable presence of light feet. He kneeled down across the fire from her, grasping a branch clustered with dark blue berries. He popped one into mouth and raised a brow as he scrutinized the taste. "They are not poisonous." He snapped the small branch in two and tossed one to her over the fire.

"And an Elf could tell?" she inquired sardonically. She inserted one into her mouth, rolled it around on her tongue, and then set the rest into the blazing bonfire. "They taste like rotten leaves."

Legolas frowned and shook his head. "You wanted 'sweet'. This is the best there is to offer—these lands are worse than dead." He picked at the twig without complaint, and his eyes wandered to the shadows dancing upon her fine, but grieved features— what he saw in particular was regret. "You are sad."

She went silently to her makeshift bed spread across the ground and laid her head down upon it grimly. "I want to hear a story."

"What story?" he asked as he swallowed the berries with some difficulty. If the taste didn't bother him, the dry, sandy texture in his mouth certainly did. He set the branch aside.

"About Greenwood. I think it's time you enlighten me," she suggested.

His eyes peered at her above the flickering fire, orange light dancing across his fair complexion. "A horror story," he muttered. He set his jaw rigidly, and his reminiscing thoughts grew dark and bitter. "About hell? What for?"

She said nothing.

"Why, Niélawen?"

"I need to know what it did to you."

His forehead creased. "What it did to me?" he echoed.

"War leaves its mark on everyone. I understand what it has done to your father, he is wise and has seen much, so I'm beginning to understand why I cannot hold his assumptions of me against him. But as for the others…" She peered up hesitantly, her eyes seeming to glisten in the glow of the fire. "They must have seen things in me that they had already seen before. What is it they hated about me?"

He shook his head grievously. "Nothing. They did not hate you." He shook his head again. "You confuse hate with caution. There's much evil in the world that cannot afford the risk of trust. But there is still good out there that we look for. What I did by taking you in so willingly is something they have never done. I only saw the goodness in you sooner than they did. And I trust, now, that many of them have found the nobility that is in you. They have no hate for you."

There was a lengthy silence between them as the fire crackled under their faces. When at last some long minutes had passed, Niélawen rolled her head again to the side and peered at him through the lick of flames. He was still gazing thoughtfully— desolately, even— into the calm blaze. "Do you believe in that?"

"What…?"

"That there is still goodness in the world worth hoping to find?"

He tossed a branch into the fire, and stood abruptly. "I do. Most of my people do. We decided long ago that we would not leave until we had seen our world safe in the hands of the honorable. We will not leave our home in ruins." He clutched his bow from the ground and turned to the thin line of trees, and said no more.

Niélawen gazed above at the stars. _There was good in the world_. A tear gathered the far corner of her eye and fell down her temple, and she wiped it away swiftly. Somehow she did not think she was apart of it.

Legolas stood back against a thin and meager tree, feeling half balanced on his feet as he peered into the darkness of the wood, unblinking, too deep in other thoughts to be on decent watch. He pressed his bow to his left breast with his right hand clasping it comfortably, his eyes suddenly wandering to her lying form across the fire. In the orange light he could see her eyes blink in unrest, and her chest shuddering unevenly with every rise and fall. When at last she shut her eyes and drifted to sleep, the silence that ensued in that time actually made him miss her, as though time between them was suddenly very precious.

She would leave, in time all too soon. The despair that followed this thought made him wonder how he would do without her— without the purpose she seemed to give him.

He shrunk back against the tree. "Dreams have misled us," he whispered into the silence, speaking to her as though she could hear and understand what he was trying to convey, and in many ways he wished it were so. His face fell, and his eyes drifted to the trees where he returned to his obscured guard.

Niélawen's eyes wound in circles beneath her lids, and her forehead knit grievously as dark dreams began to poison her thoughts. Her lips parted and some faint sobs escaped them. Legolas, out of habit, went to her swiftly— but he stopped himself short at the fire. He watched her, undecidedly, as she shifted and jerked in unrest, tears accumulating beneath her long, dark lashes. He pursed his lips.

He could not keep rescuing her.

He took one step back… and then another. Soon, he was backtracking toward the frame of sinking trees, unwilling to look back. He exhaled heavily— it was the first time he turned his back on her.

"Legolas?" came her whimpering call, and he looked her way immediately. Her teary eyes glistened in the firelight as they searched for him in the dark.

He relented, and bit by bit unveiled himself from the shadows, his slow, hesitant steps treading over the cold ground without a sound. When his body was in full view behind the tips of the blazing flames, their eyes locked, and she sat up, her hand outstretched to him.

He came to her side and kneeled down on one leg where he watched the anxiety in her eyes shatter to grief. Slowly and weakly, her two trembling arms were thrown around his neck and her cheek fell against his shoulder. But she would say nothing.

The glimmer in her eyes surprised him. This awakening was much different than the rest had always been— her attention seemed clearer, and she seemed very much aware of what was happening around her. She did not wake in a chill, panicked sweat, either, and though looking very grieved and weary, she seemed… revived, and enlightened. Though this comforted him, it was the mere continuation of the nightmares that caused him sympathy. Swallowing something painful in his throat, he draped his arms around her waist and braced her shoulders with his hands, stroking her slowly as she weakly fell against him. "They're only dreams," he murmured, mimicking words he had delivered countless times in the previous years when he truly knew no better.

Niélawen squeezed her eyes as she shuddered with tears. There was much of a relief that came from her sleep no longer being haunted by frightening images, but instead, she had heard voices within her thoughts. A familiar voice.

And her own. She had suddenly come to know too much…

Niélawen relaxed in his arms and backed away from the great warmth of his body. She sniffed, gazing down blindly at the front of his russet-colored suede jerkin and the subtle embroidery of jade and taupe thread before peering up at his face, avoiding his eyes. She moistened her numb lips and blinked through a gentle stream of tears.

"Now I think I know all that I should, but I've have seen more than I could ever want… and I will have to leave you." Her lower lip quivered. "But not because I want to—"

"I know."

"You really don't." Her hands fell from the support of his arms. "But there is something important you must understand."

He listened intently, swallowing apprehensively.

"Know when to turn back," she whispered. "You can neither lead me nor follow."

His brows jerked with alarm. "I am not leaving you now," he stated firmly.

A sudden banked anger spilled across her face, and pursing her eyes from some inner pain she grasped the rich fabric of his shirt beneath her fingers. "Listen to me," she said through her teeth, her voice quivering faintly through the sobs in her throat. She caught her breath, shutting her eyes briefly as she regained composure. She seized one of his hands and clasped her shaking fingers through his. "It's over. Our dream has come this far but it cannot go further."

His gentle eyes grimly sought for some way to sway her upsetting thoughts. He peered at her longer, and in her own eyes he saw resolution that he was steadily but fiercely willing to fight against. "I will not leave you," he finalized slowly and gently, his determination crumbling.

Her face fell with mourning, knowing he could not be made to understand— she had prayed it would not come to that. Swallowing her parched throat she peered into her lap where their entwined hands rested. Inhaling the chill evening air of winter, she took his hand and placed it over her heart, and gazed up at him closely to see a reaction. He glanced briefly to where his palm now rested, but he kept it there.

"This may have never mislead us, but we have brought ourselves too far," she whispered gravely. If anything, he had to understand that much.

But he had nothing to say— a clock was ticking furiously inside his chest and he felt there was no better time but now to do what he thought could make a momentous difference. Whatever he had to do to make her stay, he would sacrifice it all in a heartbeat. Too briefly after she had spoken her words, his hand swept the back of her neck and he drew her in with a fierce embrace. He held her tightly by the might of both his arms draped around her body as he kissed her fervently, surprising even himself by his own intensity. Their closeness, though, seemed… natural. His hands drifted down her back, and he brought her nearer.

He grasped her shoulders with the last of his fiery eagerness, heaving her nearer to him for the last few moments. She did not— even once in that time— withdraw from his warmth. When at last he parted from her lips, his eyes were still and unblinking— as only an Elf could uphold. Dazed or enamored, her eyelids remained shut as both their lips brushed together affectionately.

He took his own hand and stroked her cheek with the gentle touch he had acquired from handling her since her childhood, his fingers tracing the surface scar along her left cheek. Niélawen's posture went rigid, and as she recoiled stiffly from his touch she breathed out heavily and stared into her lap. Legolas eased himself cross-legged upon the blankets. She gazed away into the shadow blanketing the bushes, tears glistening along the brim of her eyes, and he watched her apologetically as she slid away from him uncomfortably.

"Edaved amin," [forgive me] he said almost mutely.

She shook her head dismissively. "Don't be sorry," she whispered hoarsely. But seeing him unconvinced, she took one of his hands in hers, and wiped at her eyes with her other. "Can I ask something of you?"

He nodded sternly.

"Would you feel the same for me if I was…someone…_else _but who you have always known me as?" She hesitantly awaited an answer.

He observed her with difficulty. It came as a challenge to him to wonder how she could be so sad, so doubtful…so shouldered by her own emotions. How could she not see what he did? Why, after so long, was she still in doubt of herself, when so many questions had been answered by the knowledge and the insight she had gained over the years?

He pursed his lips, and tenderly closed the collar of her shirt tight around her neck, and he draped the blanket, which lingered in a messy heap wrapped in her lap, close against her body, sealing her off from the bitter wind. His hands fell down her shoulders as he eyes drifted absently. He was silent for a lengthy duration.

"This hurts me," he explained at last in a whisper, and it seems that he could articulate himself any other way. He met her gaze after some thought. "My answer is no. I hold what you've given me… memories, feelings… dearer than life itself. We have made these moments together. I shared all these with _you_." He swallowed. "My answer is no."

Eyes peeled to his, she nodded rigidly.

He picked himself up eagerly and folded his legs so that he sat upon his heals. "And if the choice was mine," he said, bracing her hand in his firmly, "I could not let you go. I would not do it."

"But the choice is not yours," she murmured silently.

He nodded. "I only wish to know what you would have me do further... My loyalty is with you. I will stay by your side as long as I can spare, whether that is what you want or not." He turned her palm upward, and raised her small, soft hand to his lips. Even her skin smelled like sweet evening stocks…her scent would linger with him for a long time to come. A thought stirred in him. "Do you know what Elemmírë means…?"

She shook her head as she intently watched him caress and observe her gentle, petite hands.

"It is a name…_evening flower_, it means," he whispered. He peered up at her with the smile that made him seem centuries younger. "Of all things, take this, if someday you should have little memory of the love you had… with Mirkwood, and with me."

Niélawen shut her eyes, strained with guilt and sadness, and she began to weep with suffering. He braced her face within his hands and stroked her hair, though he could not understand the reason for her tears. They flooded her eyes and drenched her face without end. They would not stop, and he was finding himself being brought closer and closer to pain as he watched her suffer for a deeper reason oblivious to him.

"Ta vanwa," [It is over] she said to him croakily, and she squeezed his hand tightly. It had to be done. She knew he could not understand otherwise…

She raised her dominant hand without delay, and swayed her flat palm over his eyes in an anomalous nature.

His fair face grew weary and feeble in an instant, and his luminous eyes steadily wandered out of awareness. He began to fall forward against her, but fighting the sudden breakdown in his body, he closed his fingers around her shoulder to keep himself upright. His arm gave in, and without being able to help himself, he started to fall against her with his head rolling into the soft depression at the base of her neck. She caught him in her arms before setting him gently upon the makeshift bedding. She brushed her hands over his fair face and traced the slender, curved outline of his lips as he peered around dazedly at the camp and up at the stars with dwindling awareness of reality. What she had done— and she had once successfully experimented with another before— seemed to not be so effective with him as it should have been, for he still watched her vaguely as she hovered over him. For the longest time he would not let the weariness take over him, and his eyes remained peeled upon hers as he fought the hex set upon him. It became more difficult for her to breathe steadily as she leaned over him, catching her breath nervously as she continuously anticipated a full loss of consciousness. She became afraid, for he lied in a state of such unawareness and vulnerability that she had never seen in him in all her years. As she watched him longer, she flattened her palm against his chest, becoming preoccupied by the rhythmic beating of his heart beneath her fingertips that only suddenly began to slow to a tranquil pace, until he slept. It upset her greatly, to know that she had done such a thing to him. He never knew why she feared herself so much—but this was why. She could do far more than she wanted, yet she did not know why she was able to what she could, or be driven to do so for any reason, especially to those she loved.

She resolved in her mind that that was why she had to leave. Confusion was consuming her. She realized that if she let her feelings continue to be in conflict, she would always make decisions that felt so wrong. In the end, even if the choice was foolish, love would win over a desire for explanation. And she would never leave, and never find out who she really was beyond the frontage of an ideal Elven upbringing.

She wept silently at his side. "I am a fool." Her hands slipped down the front of his jerkin as she raised herself onto her knees. "Forget everything. Forget about me. Turn back and return home. I'll return to mine." She brought herself feebly to her feet and peered down hazily at his distant, glazed-over eyes that beheld the stars like gems.

Without a word she went, leaving him with a synthetic sleep to comfort him until the following day.


	10. The Desperate Road

Legolas woke swiftly to a sudden and overwhelming state of alarm. His limbs jolted with the abrupt stir of his senses, jerking him upright, and he blinked and looked around at his surroundings hastily. There was little, however, to judge. His eyes were bleary with weariness, and his sight was further hindered by a thick mist clinging close to the ground.

He sniffed at the air. Smoke filled his senses and, for a moment, made him lightheaded. He turned his head in the direction of the source, and through the hanging fog he made out a large drift of black smoke climbing high into the dim light of day.

He leaned forward and groaned—the stiffness in his limbs was overwhelming. He felt more tired than ever in his life, as though he was never meant to wake when he had. It had been the smoke that had aroused his senses and brought him to consciousness, and interrupted as he was, he felt deprived of sleep. His body pleaded with him to lie back down and be lost to heavy slumber for ages. His eyes were heavy, and his head yearned for the comfort of a soft surface. It was almost painful resisting the urge. He wondered if what he felt was alike to the slowest known way of dying— from old age or sickness, wearily and with a desperate, grim, and numb struggle.

His head spun as he made a second attempt to observe the place around and above him. He rubbed his temple with his hand, breathing out heavily in tune with the slow beating of his heart to calm his mind. His eyes roamed to his right where not far away the fire pit smoldered. Even through the fog he could see it had grown massively in diameter, and amongst the larger flames were a few smaller ones, rising no higher than two feet above the ground and flickering within the trench. The burning stench was unnatural— something unearthly was being seared within the pit.

Legolas' eyes grew wide, his forehead creasing. He crawled closer to the fire on his hands and knees and then drew himself up slowly. Unsteady on his feet, he stumbled awhile as he fought his way toward the fire pit until he was standing within its outermost ring and able to distinguish the reason for the heavy nature of the flames.

Charred quilts, wilted in the flames, and remnants of leather sacks as well as items of clothing were engulfed in fire, though it was clear by their appearances they had been burning for many hours. He looked into the sky, finally realizing morning light had set in not long ago. He gazed back at the fire, brows furrowed. The fire had certainly burned all through the night.

"What have you done, Niélawen," he murmured, for it was as he feared. The sleep had been deep, but the dreams had been clear in their warnings. His thoughts never told him lies; he knew the dreams had not deceived him. She had fled, but not without making a statement.

Something at the toe of his boot suddenly caught his eye. He squatted in the ashes, balancing himself with one hand grasping the soil, the other reaching out to pick up a remnant of lembas. It was burned black along the edges of one side, and the leaf packaging it had been held in was not far from it, charred from the hot smoke. He tossed the ruined piece of bread into the fire, noticing there were other loaves stacked by the numbers in the flames near the other burning materials. It seemed to him for a moment that she had burned it all.

Dirt and snow shifted behind him. He peered over his left shoulder with immediate awareness and stood up from the ground. He stood still and rigid, listening to his breaths as they escaped his lips in clouds upon the cool winter breeze. He heard another's breathing over his own, but it was gruff, and unmistakably animal-like. He relaxed significantly.

"Turgon," he called blindly into the fog, and his feet stepped lightly out from the ashes and through the dead grass and small remnants of snow. "This way, Turgon," he beckoned, and proceeded forward through the mist.

A dark shape moved in front of him, dragging gravel with it while it rose from the ground. Four slow steps sounded Turgon's skeptical approach. He could not see through the fog as well as his Elven master.

Legolas' heart went to his blinded companion, and he murmured a slow melody to help aid the horse's search. The Elf's keener eyes and ears helped him to reach his ashen steed with less trouble. As he came within reach Turgon nuzzled him in the nook between his neck and shoulder and Legolas returned the favor with an affectionate scratch. The small smile that had been on his lips from the simple comfort of the horse's presence quite instantly fell away to severity. He peered around the hazy encampment in concerned observation, carefully examining the area in which he had found his friend.

Once nestled closely and safely to Turgon was a small, dark package wrapped in torn material and bound with leather string, set atop a dark green hooded cloak— one of his own which he had given to Niélawen for her own use. He lifted the package from the cold ground and unwrapped a corner to take a look inside. A good bundle of enclosed lembas pieces had been set aside. She had not burned everything, but had instead left him enough for the trip home.

He tucked the small package away within his jerkin, draping the light cloak over his arm, and he looked on through the fog with a new degree of annoyance written upon his face. "What a fool she takes me as."

He clasped Turgon's reins and led him to where the makeshift bed had been made. He lifted the thick blanket from the ground, shook it to rid it of dead grass and snow and folded it over Turgon's back. By doing this he was unexpectedly reacquainted with his dark yew bow, meagerly arrow-filled quiver, and his two pearlescent leather scabbards containing his precious knives lying upon the soil. He buckled the suspension system around his torso and grasped the body of his bow firmly as he took a final look at the encampment. Save for the dwindling fire, there was hardly any other trace of them ever being there.

Legolas guided Turgon through the bush and into the open plains of Rhovanion's outermost edge. The instant they set foot in open air, the entire world seemed to end at their feet. All was shrouded in the fog. Legolas kept the reins tight in his hands and faced them both eastward. Turgon pawed nervously at the dry ground— there was a strange air that came from the east, which Legolas, too, noted. But he started forward despite it, figuring without further thought that hard-east was his destined course. But in a brief moment after they started, he brought them to a slow halt.

His eyes gazed thoughtfully into the mist hanging in the east. He inhaled a heavy breath of air through his nose, bringing his body to stand tall and rigid in the dim, blue light of morning; an ethereal statue lost in the haze. There he stayed for a long time.

And then with all certainty he brought himself to face south.

He had no direct evidence to support this sudden decision of his, but he knew it in his heart to be the right and only course to take. It now occurred to him that it may have been her intention to mislead him all along. It was right to believe she thought she had two dependable options within her grasp: to leave him as she had at the camp to head home in grim acceptance with only meager supplies to make the distance, or to send him off desperately to a place she never intended to go, on a path she deceptively created in some wickedly hopeful, but naïve trench of her mind. But he had always believed she was never the one for logic. He would certainly outsmart her in that region.

And he couldn't be wrong. It was a powerful feeling that urged him southward; a deep, instinctive certainty that all elves could grasp more easily than men, and Legolas felt it could not be wrong when he was as close to Niélawen as a brother is to his sister.

Turgon stood uneasily, frequently challenging his master's strength upon the bridle. The southern wind was no more comforting.

"This is our road," Legolas explained to him. He gazed ahead absently. "She has left for all the wrong reasons. I know in my heart she has taken the wrong path, and that she knows this much but has ignored the warnings. She will need me yet, Turgon." He led his fretful steed forward through the mist, slowly at first, until his confidence grew, and purpose became his most steadfast guide. "She is farther from home than she knows."

* * *

An entire day ensued before the fog cleared.

A second day's trek across the dry and stony fields brought them no less trouble as a cruel and filthy wind stormed relentlessly over the flatlands. On this day they rested for the first time since they'd left the encampment, taking shelter in some lowly and wilted brush in the middle of nowhere. These tiny wooded areas of lifeless trees and shrubs dotted the plains with the odd passing miles, but few were ever enough to shield even Legolas from the bitter elements, let alone a horse.

Turgon collapsed into the heap of shrubs, his legs giving in as he was finally ensured dependable shelter. Dust and dirt blew in through the gaps in the bush, but he did not care. His heavy lids shut on impact, and he fell into a deep and undisturbed sleep even as he struggled for a clean, easy breath.

Cradled in a canopy of drooping trees, Legolas felt safe enough from the windstorm. He sat himself down on solid ground, propping himself against a crooked tree. Dusk was setting in, but weariness had not come over his body just yet. He would have gone on for another day without interval if he did not worry for Turgon. Two brief stops in a day were not enough, and Legolas felt a heavy burden of remorse for pushing his friend beyond his limits. The Elf had a strong feeling their journey would push his own limits, as well.

He leaned forward and deftly unfastened the leather straps around his body. Watching ribbons of dust swirl overhead in the roaring wind, he reached over his shoulder and pulled forth his bow holster, his scabbards, and his quiver, and laid them all at his side next to his bow. He extended his long legs across the ground, and relaxed his head against the trunk with a long sigh.

To his left in the west the sky was a pale crimson; directly above him the crimson blended to colors of lavender and blue. The east was nearly black, and had he gazed far enough, he was certain to have beheld some young stars twinkling in the early night. He shut his eyes for a moment and listened to the wind as it howled passed them.

The air smelled thickly of dust. He squeezed his eyes tight with agitation, knowing Niélawen's path likely led her straight through the storm— and against it. What bothered him most was knowing that she had so little for resources. Lembas would not be sufficient for her trek— however long it was, for he could not begin to guess at how far she planned to go— and she had nothing to hunt with.

His lids slowly opened, and his hand fell from his front to the jumble of leather straps and holsters at his side. He sorted through them without haste, and stopped in expectance to find the small scabbard, once holding a hunting dagger, empty. He clenched his jaw, feeling both relief and frustration.

The wind faintly died down. He leaned forward and observed the conditions from the largest gaps in the bushes. He peered into the west at the setting sun and decided they should continue within the hour.

* * *

"…There will be plenty of quiet, comfortable places to sleep, fresh water from clear pools, and all the grazing you could ask for." Legolas scratched Turgon's ears as they sauntered along in the warm, early afternoon sunlight, both pleased by a cool, gentle breeze that blew past them.

There was a great current of wind that blew north across the plains; in the early part of the day it was mild and refreshing, but from mid-afternoon until sundown it was brutal and humid. During the worst of these long hours they rested. They traveled almost continuously without rest from night until afternoon, only taking a brief stop for every vast distance that was covered. Legolas took to riding less, feeling he could take better advantage of his infinite stamina. He also let Turgon roam free without reins, which often meant that Legolas wandered far behind the horse in the wake of morning and drifted far ahead when the long hours of the day passed into late afternoon and took their toll on the steed's sturdy body. At the present, however, they were at a fine pace at each other's side.

Legolas peered into the west, quickly becoming consumed in thought with the help of the dullness of the whispering breeze. There was a dark line on the horizon— the gloomy border of Mirkwood. They had unintentionally wandered inward from their trail, bringing them closer west than he had anticipated. He did not know what to make of this, but excitement grew within him at the sight of a sudden break in the dark line of forest further ahead.

Legolas took his arm and wrapped it underneath Turgon's chin, beckoning him to the right. Having become accustomed to freedom and disliking the sudden break of routine, Turgon snorted his objection, jostling his muzzle free of handling, and stomping against the stubble grass. Legolas frowned at his grumpy behavior.

"Faarea!" [Enough!] he snapped intolerantly. He clasped Turgon's mane and mounted, grabbing the reins hastily and pointing Turgon westward. "Look there— the East Bight. There are men there that may have the answers we are seeking." He beckoned the horse onward, and they took off quickly toward the western horizon.

An hour's ride brought them close to the forest's edge and the lengthy gap that was the East Bight. Legolas' heart raced at the sight of a settlement located outside the Bight. Smoke rose from a chimney in the heart of the fortified barricade.

It took little time to reach the structure. When they were near enough for Legolas to note it looked as much an outpost as a farm, he brought Turgon to a cautious trot until they could safely slow to a brisk walk. There Legolas dismounted and reached for his bow before leading Turgon by the reins toward the tall gate of the stronghold.

The eight-foot-high outer wall was roughly constructed from the shaved trunks of oak trees. Every odd numbered trunk along the barricade was sharpened at the top, and all of them looked old enough to be decayed. He could see little within the walls save for a thatched roof and a high watchtower not quite twice as tall as the outer wall, and so he approached with much caution, uncertain as to what lied behind the wooden gate.

He was but a moment away from the gate when its hinges jostled and its planks creaked, and very slowly it opened. A small head covered in short, pale golden curls poked through the space between the frame and the door, and a little girl no more than five emerged shyly from the safety of the gate, opening it just wide enough to bring her petite arms across its length. Bold brown eyes gazed up at him fixedly as he stood tall above her, marveling at her round, pretty, and carelessly dirt-smeared face.

"Hello." He bowed his head and smiled warmly at her as she gaped below him in silence. He peered curiously through the gap in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone who could offer him the assistance he needed immediately. However delightful the little girl was, he had little time to concern himself with her. Luckily for him, his silent inquiry did not go unanswered for long.

"Ayan! Get away from there." A heavyset man of average height with hair speckled grey from early aging swung the gate wide open and brushed his arm across the small body of the girl, steering her behind him and back to safety within the barricade. The man was quiet for a long while as he studied the stranger at his door with a mystified expression.

Legolas raised his right hand to his breast and bowed his head, greeting the man while keeping a close eye on him. "Forgive me, I—"

"What is this?" the man inquired guardedly, his narrowed eyes observing Legolas head to toe. "An Elf," he noted gruffly. Brows arched, he shook a finger at him. "You're from the Forest, eh? Up north there, by the river…?"

Legolas nodded once and kept silent.

"What's one of you doing down here?" the man demanded next. He paused, eyes still very narrow. "What do you want?"

"Directions," Legolas answered. "That is all." The air was thick with tension; he thought it best to keep things brief and to the point.

The man observed him for a moment longer, acknowledging the white, grey-speckled horse at the Elf's side, and then quickly scanned the emptiness around them. "You're alone…"

"My time here is costly," Legolas stated eagerly. "I have none to waste, therefore I will not waste yours. A moment is all I ask of you."

The man crossed his arms across his burly chest and sighed heavily. He examined Legolas again and then finally shook his head. "Sorry, lad. We don't help strangers here, unless on business."

Gravel shifted behind the doors, and a young woman swept her way between the man and the gate. She stopped short at the sight of Legolas and grasped the side frame of the gate, her face alight with surprise.

"What are you doing?" the man muttered sharply. He braced a hand across her broad shoulders and ushered her back inside. "I'm busy here, Eithne—go."

The young woman, looking to be only years apart from Niélawen, rose far above the man in height and did not seem to be hindered by any command. She had brown eyes behind thick lashes and gaped long at Legolas with a strange intensity. At the young woman's appearance and obviously bold manner, Legolas at last concluded he was not dealing with any ordinary, socially shy people. He was drawn to meet the quick gaze the young woman fixated upon him, fascinated by what he saw in her eyes. There was both a defenseless glimmer of confusion and a ferocity he had only seen in the angriest of people. It seemed to him she was seriously scrutinizing him; delving deep into his eyes to judge him before he could speak his worth. For a long while they stared at each other challengingly and wordlessly, neither thwarted by the other's reciprocated gesture.

"_Eithne_. Inside." The man warned, watching Legolas in agitation.

Their gazes fell. The young woman pulled a thick, dusty blonde braid off her shoulder and turned to the solid man, nodding her head in interest to the Elf at their door. "Who is he, papa?" she inquired softly.

The man's brow twitched uneasily. "He was just leavin'," he announced, just as much to Legolas as to his daughter.

Her attention shifted between them, and she tensed. "Is something wrong?"

"No—"

"Does he need help?"

"Eithne!"

She peered at Legolas, eyes wide and probing. "You lost?"

"He ain't lost!" the man snapped. He grumbled inaudibly in his throat. "Elves don't get lost."

"He's somewhat right," Legolas affirmed grimly. "Though I'm afraid that I am neither lost nor certain of the road I'm to take." He breathed through his nose and stood tall, his patience dwindling fast. "I have come this way tracking a woman." It was the last of all things he wanted to divulge to strangers, but it seemed that he had little choice. He didn't want to listen to them squabble again, even if it meant receiving the information he was seeking. "She may have come this way. It was my intention to seek what I could from… locals."

The man stepped out in front of his daughter, leaning his hand against the doorway in a blocking manner. "We ain't seen anybody around here for weeks, lad," he told Legolas firmly, though somewhat apologetically. "You'd best leave if—"

"I may be able to help you." The woman named Eithne moved out from behind her father, and she linked her arm in his as he peered at her with great concern and bewilderment. She nodded to Legolas without hesitation, and there was already a warmer, friendlier, and more trusting air about her. "I can help you."

* * *

The interior of the barricade was, in fact, deceptively spacious in contrast to what Legolas had assumed it to be from outside its walls. Passed the gate, which he noticed now was reinforced on the inside with steel plates, he and Turgon were led down a wide gravel path surrounded by surprisingly healthy-looking grass. It brightened his mood significantly to see terrain even relatively close to green. There stood two buildings on opposite ends of the path: on the left was what appeared to be a storehouse, and on the right was a considerably larger stable. On the same side, behind the stable, was a two-floored house. Its base level had been constructed from stone, its second-story from worn, stucco-plastered material, and its roof looked to be a combination of grass and timber. Altogether it was surprisingly welcoming. The path rounded to an end in front of the dwelling, and surrounding the smaller pebble walkway to the house, which was perpendicular to the main path, were simple gardens of wildflowers, many battered and wilting from harsh winds that even the outer wall could not obstruct.

Legolas gazed around him with vast interest and eagerness to see more. Eithne and the stout man led him passed the shadow of the storehouse and took him to the front of their house. His attention was drawn away from the dwelling to the left side of the main path where a fair-sized watchtower built entirely from logs stood. Below it the curly haired child he had seen earlier was presently crouched close to the ground, observing something small and unnoticeable in the grass while periodically looking up uneasily to acknowledge the stranger.

Eithne gestured to the small girl with a loving smile. "Ayan, my little sister."

Meanwhile Eithne's father had taken to finding Turgon's reins, and he led the horse back down the path towards the stable. "I'll be getting' him some water," he called back in half a grunt, and with that he went out of sight.

Eithne shaded her eyes with a slender hand and peered up at the tower. "Ayan was playing up there yesterday— still not sure why. I was in the house when she called for me. She saw some rider going across the plains."

Legolas moved from behind Eithne, and she looked at him with some concern. "That isn't common— to see a lone rider traveling this way without stopping for rest. We're the only settlement for days; I don't see why any one would just… keep going."

"What time of day was this?"

"Had to have been late afternoon. The rider looked to be headed south-east."

He approached the ladder and started his ascent.

"You're welcome to stay here," she offered after a while.

"I'll be setting off before dusk," he replied nonchalantly as he climbed.

She hesitated. "Who is this person you're following?"

He paused half way up the ladder, and stared at her for a long moment. She shrunk back from the look of subtle severity and watched him continue his climb and disappear into the loft without a word.

The tower had a roof too low for his holstered bow to fit beneath so he drew it from his back and carried it with him to the eastern facing overlook before leaning it against the banister. He crossed his forearms across the board that was nailed to the railing and let his hands dangle over the edge. The air was still and warm. In the far distance dark storm clouds veiled the blue sky.

He gazed across the desolate plains, able to see a great horizon ahead of him that was as dull and unpleasing to the eye from afar as it was up close. He averted his eyes to the south-east and found himself disturbingly drawn to it. He narrowed his eyes— resentment was once again on his mind.

But he wanted her back, and as he was listening to his heart more often than what could be considered wise in such a situation, it told him that his business still went unfinished. His logic tried to compel him against this emotional reasoning, and if that was not noteworthy enough, he didn't know what was.

He snatched his bow and made his way out of the tower. There was a clock inside of him ticking relentlessly— one look at what was to be his destination seemed to easily convince him that he now had only one chance to turn back.

And it was a chance he was willing to disregard, regrettable as this decision could eventually be.

From the opening in the loft he leapt the high distance that separated him from the ground. Upon his landing he strode passed the curly-haired child still playing amidst the grass. She peered after him with a sparkle of intrigue in her brown eyes, and then climbed to her feet to scurry after him. He followed the path to the stable and found Eithne where he suspected her to be. She stood beneath the frame of its wide doors with her back turned, but she faced him when she heard her sister's approach instead of his, though he was closer.

He was about to pass her with but a glimpse to her from the corner of his eye when Ayan stumbled on her own feet and fell hard into the gravel. He glanced over his shoulder in alarm, and Eithne stepped hastily to her little sister's rescue. Making the short distance backwards, Legolas gingerly snatched Ayan from the ground and carried her in one arm before handing her off to her older sister. He looked Eithne hard in the eyes.

"You told me she went south-east," he began solemnly. "You must tell me what lies that way."

Little Ayan did not cry from the wounds on her small knees, but instead leaned her head on her sister's shoulder with half a fist in her mouth, watching and listening intently to the Elf she would not take her eyes off of.

Eithne pursed her lips. "There's a place there only locals know of. You won't find it on a map, but the traders from Rhûn take the route through it all the time." She stroked her hand over Ayan's fair curls. "You don't want to go there."

"But I will." He walked away and strode through the stable passageway. Eithne scrambled after him.

"You know nothing of these lands— of the people that come through here!"

"Then it would be wise that you enlighten me," he replied impatiently.

Eithne placed her sister on the ground and followed after him. Her father was in a stall nearby, grooming Turgon as the horse drank clean water vigorously. "They won't treat you like we have here. Men of that town come from all over this world, but they are alike in nature. None deal kindly with strangers. Unwitting travelers are killed there."

Legolas packed the blanket, cloak, and package over Turgon's back. "How has this knowledge come by you? Travelers' tales?"

The stout man looked between them uncertainly.

"Actually, yes. The merchants come this way several times," Eithne explained carefully.

Legolas stopped his task and raised a brow.

"We trade, sell, and buy from them," she went on, agitated by his response. "That is what we do here! Our living is made through them and the folk that make the long journey from the woods. We know enough of their ways to be amongst them, but we are nothing like them." She paused meaningfully. "They live by the ways of Rhûn, but diverse they are, and therefore they are neither under its laws nor the laws of any other country. They make their own."

Legolas turned to her father. "How far is it from here?"

"Three days, if you be ridin' swift."

Legolas grabbed Turgon by the reins and led him out of the stable. They followed him out in disarray, looking after him uneasily as he slung his bow in its holster and mounted quickly.

"You go to your death, lad," the man told him hopelessly.

"They don't let you die there—you're forced to bear agony for months. They are skilled, not mindless and barbaric," Eithne told him. "We know what they do to unassuming people. I lost a mother and a husband to them— you cannot let our warnings go unheeded."

"They're damn yellow-skinned monsters— I don't care how much 'skill' they have," her father muttered, a fire of hostility burning strongly in his eyes. He added bitterly, "They even let themselves be ordered about by a woman."

Legolas turned sharply. "What woman?"

Eithne looked to her father for confirmation. "Sedda they call her, if I remember right. The traders say many things about her, all flattering. They seem to love her as much as their god." She sneered. "They even believe she is one… in part."

"How does a woman come to run a city?" Legolas asked.

"By the supremacy of _lineage_," Eithne answered flatly. "They uphold a hierarchical system, like that of all the Easterlings. Even the slaves will own slaves. It is all about power— that is why Sedda holds the law. You see, she is different, in both look and ability. Without her life story and that of her ancestors she would be as good to men there as any woman, different or alike to the norm."

Legolas furrowed his brows, responding with distress to the statement. "What do you mean by that?"

Eithne glanced at her father and crossed her arms.

The man looked to Legolas with despair. "There ain't no hope for your lady friend there… a man's world, it is, unless she's anything like that Sedda."

The determination in Legolas' eyes was immediately crushed by fear, and he was certain they could see it on his face by the growing sympathetic nature of their expressions.

"We're sorry," Eithne whispered. "But there is no hope for her, and neither will there be for you."

Legolas inhaled heavily and stared off ahead in anguish. Was he too late to hope that he might find her on the way? Perhaps he had already failed her, and seeking her in hostile territory would only escalate the severity of what he was doing. But did he not have a duty to her? To mend the mistakes she would unwittingly make? This was a thought that could never, ever be left unheeded. He would protect her— that was his duty.

His fingers grasped the reins tightly. "I would hope, then, that you pray she endures it there… until I find her."

Eithne's eyes softened with compassion. "We'll pray for you both." She looked on as her father rushed ahead to open the gates. She was certain she would not forget the look of pain and fear in the Elf's eyes as he galloped away into the fields and onward to a dark and menacing horizon.

* * *

A fierce windstorm— and the greatest they had yet seen— attacked the plains sporadically for many days. They had not rested once since their departure from the settlement of Eithne and her father on the fourth day of riding, and Legolas had long since lost track of time. He did, however, continue to accurately judge their direction by the wind, and this method kept them well centered on their south-eastern course.

The air was filthy, churning a thick cloud of red dust into the sky and across the plains. Often he walked at Turgon's side, usually to shield the animal's face from the blowing wind with his cloak so the horse would not suffer the sharp beating of the dust. There was much less shelter where they were headed, and this crude reality forced them to fight out the elements.

Legolas was frantic in their endeavor. His feet wanted to carry him swifter than Turgon's would, and his worn-out companion grew slower as the hours through the hard fields and vigorous wind currents went on. Legolas at last took to leading him by the reins.

Dust as sharp as chiseled flecks of granite thrashed in Legolas' eyes and stung them to near blindness, and his clothes were caked in dust to the very last of their outer fibers. But on he went, reinforced every now and again with new vigor fueled by greater desperation.

The reins in his grasp fell away. Turgon fell to the ground, and Legolas was drawn down with him. The Elf dropped to his knees as Turgon rolled to his side, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. The horse huffed in great, struggling breaths. The wind beat against Legolas' back now, and he crawled to where his companion's head lay, unshielded and vulnerable in the path of the wind. Blindly Legolas searched the ground for the cloak that had fallen from his arms upon their fall, and when he retrieved it he quickly draped it over Turgon's eyes and laid his own head upon the steed's neck with closed eyes.

Turgon's intense breathing broke the dusty, swirling air around him. He emitted raspy, strangled grunts as he tried to breathe. Legolas licked his lips and tasted a thick layer of dirt. Deep, physical pain from his grief wrenched his insides, his guilt heftier than it had ever been.

This was the price he had to pay. At his side his friend struggled in overexertion against the harsh, inescapable elements— now it was his turn to suffer. Though it was certain that he would be able to stand strongly again on his feet and go on until his destination was reached, the burden on his mind would take him to a much heavier exhaustion. Either way, it seemed, they could both easily succumb to death. And then there would be no one to save them. No one would bring them home if they could not save themselves.

A thunderous current deafened him, ringing in his ears like every clamoring wind did when at the peak of its intensity. Hoards of dust bit his flesh like thousands of miniscule glass shards. Above the raging wind a horn sang in the distance, and so far away was its call that Legolas at first believed his eardrums were simply ringing in pain.

But it came again.

His sharp ears twitched and he raised his head, opening his eyes as he felt a break in the ferocity of the wind. He searched behind him, and he blinked his eyes in bewilderment.

He raised himself to his feet as his heart raced. It seemed that by chance the dust had suddenly cleared to but a mildly battering wind across the plains, and only mere wisps of brown clouds obscured the sight far away.

Many miles from where he stood was a wide structure with numerous smaller shapes surrounding it. His keen eyesight blessed him with distinct details— it was a high-walled barrack. A guarded city.

"Niélawen," he whispered, nearly smiling.

Turgon grunted behind him, hooves pawing at the dry ground. Legolas shut his eyes in devastation as inevitable reality bruised the sudden thrill that had come over him. He turned himself around slowly and he fell to his knees at Turgon's side. Tears threatened at the backs of his eyes. The steed's large brown eyes gazed his way as best as they could considering the angle of his head. Legolas stroked the side of his face, running his hand down his silver mane with great fondness.

"Ethelithon ten'lle," [I will return for you] he told him earnestly. Turgon was motionless and silent as he was spoken to, personifying the intelligent, human-like tendencies he was famous for in sitting as he did with such alertness. He was listening to every word, comprehending all that escaped Legolas' lips, and bringing more anguish to his devoted master than could be imagined.

"Before nightfall, I will come back." Legolas secured his cloak as a drape around his face. Turgon was still motionless, his bold eyes glistening wide and watchfully in the pale light. "You are too weary to carry your own body to where we must go, my friend," he went on to explain in a tender, low voice. "But should you find your strength, linger here awhile. Do not wander." He pursed his lips, inhaling a much needed breath of air, and then stood, his eyes resting mournfully upon his friend. Turgon began to stir.

Legolas turned on his heals and began to walk away, unable to watch any more. "Quel est tenna' moth, Turgon." [Rest well until dusk.]

The dry grass and dirt that was Turgon's bedding shifted. Legolas stopped and looked over his shoulder. Turgon had brought himself up onto his forelegs, but could go no further, as the rest of his body was immobile and weak. Legolas looked away. "Be safe," he whispered. He quickened his pace along his desolate trail, and kept it steady throughout the many miles.

Two thoughts pressed on his mind and drove him to greater haste— returning to his deserted friend, and reaching his destination and Niélawen in good time. The threat of Turgon's well-being was as much of a constant strain as Niélawen's. He could not begin to assume what situation beheld her. Considering she was a day ahead of him, he assumed she had definitely found her way safely, but in the two following possibilities he could not find much comfort. Either she had settled into the perilous lands in which she had recklessly established a place of safekeeping— a position that would make his task difficult— or she currently suffered the brutal reality that could only be found in an alien environment. He feared for her as he feared for Turgon.

For the latter half of the march, he ran ceaselessly.

* * *

The solid oak door opened brusquely. Warm light from within stunned Niélawen only briefly, well adjusted as she was to the heavy darkness of the evening. Nessa jostled in alarm within her rider's grasp, and the tall man in the doorway glowered hard at them.

"I'm sorry," Nielawen apologized quietly. He regarded her strangely, an annoyed scowl swiftly being replaced by curiosity. "We're in need of lodging… and food."

The man studied her carefully, observing her head to toe and back up again. He had an intimidating figure, a man of great stature and brawn despite the look of middle-age upon his wide face. He was very wary of the stranger and her horse standing on his porch, and he made a point of projecting this guardedness.

"I will make up for what you graciously offer us," Niélawen beseeched him. "Food and shelter for us both. I request no more than this, and I promise that we will not be a bother to you after morning."

He considered, and did not make her wait much longer. He opened the door wider in a welcoming gesture. "Don't suppose it will hurt to receive you for just a night. I might manage some leftovers anyway…"

Niélawen beamed and bowed her head in gratitude. "Thank you." She swung Nessa's loose reins over her saddle. "Thank you, sir."

He considered Nessa with a frown. "Won't you be wanting to tie it up?"

She smiled politely. "She is obedient— very tame, I assure you." She stroked Nessa's mane and kissed her above the eye. "Na quel," [Be good] she murmured with a smirk, and pat her back fondly. "Take care, love. I won't be far." She followed the man inside and he closed the door at her heels.

Her feet swept across a floor of smooth oak panels that were warm even beneath her elven boots. Though the exterior walls were constructed of a smoky-colored brick, the walls within were paneled in rich wood, and curtained with elaborate red quilts on bare sections. There were sheer curtains draped over narrow windows throughout the main portion of the dwelling.

There was an air of great wealth that Nielawen noted immediately. The furnishings were rich and in plentiful number throughout, and the area was dimly lit by random torches along the walls. There was a kitchen at her left and a good-sized table in the open suitable for four. The air smelled of foreign herbs, and she embraced the spicy scent with warmth.

"Take a seat. I'll find something for you." The man's voice rolled with an eccentric, rich accent, and she listened intently when he spoke, interested as she was in foreign languages.

She picked the seat that was closest to the wall on the left, allowing her an exceptional view of the room. There were many decorations suspended upon the walls—attractive quilts, shelves stocked with devices, texts, and containers. There were even weapons, some that were long and efficient, and some that were broad and vicious. Once her curiosity had been satisfied, she occasionally regarded the man at his stove. There was no hair on his head, and when he turned her way she noted his dark brows and dark eyes, and the sallow hue of his skin.

"Where are you from?" he asked, his voice deep and toneless. He placed a bowl of stew in front of her.

Her eyes wandered cautiously as she stroked her hands nervously in her lap. "…Far north."

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Right," he grunted. "Makes sense."

She frowned at the sarcasm in his tone, and began to eat from the fine dish. It was hardy, despite consisting of only vegetables and herbs, and a runny substance for texture. He took a seat on the opposite end of the table, holding a cup in his hand. He watched her intently as she ate.

"You have strange clothes," he commented after a long silence.

She did not reply, but instead stuck to eating even though she had suddenly lost her appetite to anxiety. His presence was unnerving.

There was another lengthy hush in the dwelling, and she felt pressed to eat more slowly and in silence.

"Are you here alone?"

Niélawen licked her lips, and forced a chuckle as she acknowledged his dark eyes briefly out of discomfort. She could not decide if she should admit to being on her own. "Nessa is very good company," she said finally. Her eyes lit up in recollection, and she took a last, quick spoonful before getting up from her chair and starting towards the door. The man stood up sharply behind her, and she paused to regard him over her shoulder.

"I'm just… I think she may be hungry." She smiled innocently, and when he turned away she opened the door and set her half-full bowl on the porch. Nessa emerged from the darkness and ate gratefully.

"Good night, love," Nielawen said before she disappeared inside the house.

"Are you finished?" The thick accent caught her off guard. He was standing very close behind her.

"What?"

"Do you need more food?"

She wrapped her arms around her body. "No. Thank you."

His watch upon her was heavy and unrelenting. It was almost… enticing; eager, even. She gazed away immediately and distracted herself with the interior furnishings. "This is a lovely home you have."

"Yes." It was a strange reply, but it seemed that he was looking quite impatient, as if in waiting.

"Is there something you would like me to do now? In return…" She wiped her hands on her shirt— Legolas' shirt. A strange, forlorn feeling came over her, and she quickly straightened it out. It was a precious item to her now. "I have no money to offer you, but I will work in payment for your generosity."

He studied her thoughtfully, though he had made up his mind long before. His eyes narrowed, glinting in a way that sent a frantic warning racing through her. He nodded his head in the direction behind him. "This way."

Keeping her distance, she followed him across the central part of the room where he led her to a door-less entryway, a red gossamer drape dangling overhead. It was dark within when he disappeared beyond the arch, but shortly a pale light arose far away in a corner she could not yet see, and he emerged into the open. She took this as an indication to follow, and she passed through the curtain.

It was a wide room of elaborate décor, much like the rest of the dwelling. There were some square, bronze shields strung upon the four walls as well as large, heavy talismans of great worth, polearms, and other unique but fascinating weapons. In the center of the widest wall on which hung a scimitar sword was a broad bed, covered with thin animal furs and a flimsy, crimson mantle.

Her heart beat furiously in her chest and her blood ran hot through her veins. She began to sweat. She took an abrupt step backwards. The man's tall shadow loomed above her and he took her aggressively by the arm, shifting close to her.

She released herself from his grasp and moved briskly out of the room. She had made a horrible mistake, and there was no other thought going through her mind but that of the frantic command to "run."

Her heart thudded madly, and her pulse surged rapidly in her head— a familiar indication that something far greater than fear was building up inside of her. Her thoughts ceased in an instant as she was suddenly snatched by the back of her shirt and brutally dragged backwards with a force that hurled her blindly into a wall.

His intention seemed to be to lunge at her, but her eyes caught this action quicker than he anticipated, and she swept her right forearm against the side of his neck, forcing him aside, landing her left fist in his gut. With a frantic cry she made for the door.

He cursed behind her in a language that was harsh and chilling, and very foreign. She applied the greatest swiftness she could muster to reach the only way out, but she was delayed by having to stop and open the door. He snatched her by her long braid and threw her back once again. She landed on her right side, skidding across the floor on her arm.

The cold touch of steel came against her throat. He yelled at her wrathfully in his callous, native tongue, as he straddled her on the floor and pinned her hands above her head. She could make no sense of his words and pursed her lips as he scorned her, until he eventually proceeded in the Common Tongue.

"Attempting to leave is a dangerous attempt of thievery, girl," he breathed through his teeth, pressing his face close to hers. "If I were you I would not want to be caught a thief out there."

She bore her teeth furiously as she spoke. "I'm no compensation," she snarled.

"You're a woman." His nostrils flared fervently. "This is all you are worth here. You want to live? You serve your worth and you will have food to eat and a place to sleep, or death will take you very quickly."

Her banked anger raged within her. Fire surged through her blood and there was an urgent need for her to release it— but she held it back. She was more afraid of unleashing it than dying viciously by the knife and having her body abused after her passing.

He lowered his knife swiftly from her throat and sheathed it, breathing excitedly. "You'll like it here. And for a pretty face, I won't disappoint."

Her teeth ground brutally under the intense pressure of her jaw, until she let out a great cry and, gathering her strength, freed her limbs from his restraint and clasped his thick throat with her petite hand.

His hand went for her dangling braid, but she released her grasp on his neck and hacked at his throat instead with the rigid edge of her hand. He stumbled to the side and she immediately threw herself on top of him. She drew the small hunting knife she had left concealed in her boot and pressed its tip against his flesh. Her hand began to tremble as she struggled to hold it steady.

She felt a strong need to weep, and so great was the influence on her that her eyes had already brimmed with tears. Her limbs grew weak from the fierce conflict ensuing between her fiery madness and her frantic, despairing mind. She could only think of one thing— her weakness. There was no one to help her mend this mistake.

Except for Legolas.

Her lip quivered. Only Legolas…

The knife fell from her hands and her tears made her blind. She felt a heavy blow to the side of her head. Her body went limp, and she was suddenly lifted from the floor and slung across a brawny shoulder. She fought with her fists, beating them against her assailant's back, but it was futile. The world swarmed around her.

A gossamer drape slid off her shoulders, and she let out a last cry of helplessness before the candle dimmed and the room grew dark.

* * *


	11. The Nameless

It seemed to Legolas the windstorm had relented for a while, leaving the air thick and dusty despite the growing chill that came with the approach of nightfall. His throat was dry from breathing in the grime, and his skin and garments were soiled with glittering fragments of dirt and sand. It was only when at last he slowed from his tireless run that he noticed what vigor he had upheld for innumerable miles. His destination stood right before his feet.

Two keeps shed their darkness upon him as he paced from one foot to the other and took a much deserved moment of stillness to consider his whereabouts. He surveyed the scene a fair distance ahead; at least a hundred steep-roofed dwellings gave shape to a perfectly dimensioned town. Further on, situated at the city's southern-most end and centered with the main road that separated the community, he saw what appeared to be a high-walled estrangement— less regal than a citadel but seemingly likewise in purpose in that it sheltered something within. However, he had already seen all this from afar as he had made his way across the plains, and so what was now left to be discovered could wait until he crossed the threshold. He had found civilization and a last resort for immediate assistance in his desperate hour. His mind was exhausted and still too hard-pressed with the matters at hand to care about much else.

His eyes gazed pensively over his shoulder and across the empty flatlands for the first time since he had left Turgon's side, and his feet, as if alive by their own will, moved him from the shadows to face him north-west where he had come. A part of him still held a deep and excruciating sense of regret for what he had done. Leaving one very dear to him to pursue another seemed very wrong to him, whether that companion was human or not.

A warning stirred him back to his senses. Feeling the unannounced presence of another, he sharply drew his attention to one of the guard towers. From within emerged a bronze-scaled sentinel who observed the Elf below with darkly outlined eyes. Alarm written deeply in the lines of his forehead, Legolas swiveled promptly to fully take in the image before him on stable feet, should his cautious rigidity fail him and the urge to act out of instinct— to immediately destroy what he knew was his enemy— rule over him.

The dragon-like armor caught his attention at once, and he knew his foe without having to set his eyes upon the face concealed beneath the red scarf. This was a town of the Easterlings, the dreaded dwellers of Rhûn and devoted servants of Sauron, who owned the skill and motive to create such work. The sentinel, less armored than a regular soldier, leaned over the railing, displaying a polearm in one of his gloved hands. The weapon was a vicious creation, bearing a serrated blade that caught the orange light as it was spun tediously on its wooden shaft, a means of both amusement and inducing discomfort.

Eithne had warned Legolas well— perhaps too vaguely for his moment of brashness, but she had told him nonetheless: _they live by the ways of Rhûn._ He knew at once this was one enemy he did not wish to know more of beyond the cautioning tales his elders had fed him during all his long years.

Legolas' body was rigid as his hands fell to his sides. Taking one breath to brace his concentration, he walked a straight path toward the town that lay ahead, serene in his attempt to disregard the first embodiment of great hatred that surrounded him. The sentinel leered after him, slowly circling the railing atop the guard tower to follow the Elf's footsteps. Had Legolas been some unwitting soul bearing the bow, the quiver of three arrows, and the deadly skills he himself possessed to wield such weapons, he would have seen both steely eyes rendered useless. Never in his life— even in the brooding woods of his homeland— did he so hate being watched.

A heavy gust blew across the very small, empty field that stood between the watchtowers and the city. Though the storm had died, such were the winds that ruled the plains, as he now realized. The road beneath his feet was hardly a road at all, but instead merely hard-packed earth. However, as the outlying structures neared, his boots crossed onto a real street paved with large, flat slabs of contrasting, earthen stones. A number of people sauntered in the streets a safe distance away, and it appeared they had not yet taken note of his presence.

He peered over his shoulder and looked back longer than he intended. The watch tower he had previously passed now bore a long wooden rod atop its railing that rose taller than the dark, steep roof. A lengthy and ravaged flag flapped atop the shaft in the developing wind, slowly billowing with a brooding effect against the pastel-tinted sky like running blood. Legolas knew it had not been there beforehand, and realized his passage was officially under close guard.

* * *

The town seemed faultless in its engineering, nothing misplaced or scattered unevenly. Every structure was a product of fine architecture; every tiny dwelling was given meticulous detail in its construction and all walls were built from great bricks of either stone or sun-hardened earth. They seemed to have been built for the purpose of withstanding the torrents of winds that frequently terrorized the plains, yet despite their solid, hardy exteriors they were greatly lavished with beautiful shrubbery and even wildflowers, small additions that served to take the attention away from the barren landscape. Every roof was identical, all of them high-peaked and steep-edged and covered by dark, rounded cedar shades that had long since faded to a dull grey color. Legolas was both bewildered and impressed. It was strange to him such a community had never found its place on a map. 

The roads were solid, though they had seen their share of weathering over what Legolas judged to be many years of existence. The materials offered by the earth, particularly the soil and the stone, had been used in much of the town's construction— an indication of some efficiency among the inhabitants— yet there were other contributing resources that the land could not provide unless heavy trading occurred all across the plains. The town's foundation, after all, was nothing more than a barren field of dead grass and dry, hard-packed earth.

It took but a moment after his entrance for him to be detected by onlookers. Conversations halted and many stopped to point and gape his way, and he immediately felt unwelcome. Nearly every face bore a sallow complexion, dark locks, and even darker eyes. There were a number of faces of such a dark skin tone they were nearly ebony. He strode quietly and unassumingly passed the hushed crowds, most of which parted a clear road for him to go through. The air was thick with unease.

As he continued down the wide street, all eyes caught sight of the Elven bow, quiver, and two pearlescent scabbards clinging to holsters and leather straps upon his back, ready for immediate use. Several of the onlookers draped their garments across their faces as they left the scene and retreated through narrow streets between dwellings, seeming to anticipate a forthcoming confrontation not theirs to be a part of. Legolas peered passed his shoulder for but a moment, and a number of women, similarly dressed in many layers of richly colored fabrics, left at the mere sight of his harmless gaze, despite being visibly undaunted. It was if they were acting out of obedience.

Shadows danced upon the lifeless street as he made his way through the town, relying on the main road to keep him from losing his way. He had no time to spare on curiosity. He needed transportation, but his new problem seemed to lie in the community that was lacking any form of hospitality toward a stranger such as him. The task of finding a stable and a swift horse to borrow would be a difficult undertaking on his own.

The further he treaded, the more people there were. The buildings on either side of him grew taller and more heavily populated, and most looked to be shops rather than homes. Given a greater number of onlookers in the area, there seemed to be less attention focused on him—much to his relief. Yet there were plenty of curious murmurs filling the air, hushed words all spoken in the Common Tongue but altered by rich accents rooted in a language he was unfamiliar with. As he reached the heart of the crowd, many people quite instantly took notice of him, their sallow faces showing little expression other than suspicion as they studied him. Though their eyes held no fear, they retreated beneath their silky garments and headscarves and indifferently took to the back roads without causing a stir. Indeed, as in the stories Legolas had once heard, they were a fearless folk, even without their terrible armor and weapons. Clearly they were far too proud of the reputation they upheld to falter outside of war— perhaps, to them, fear could never be a quality of the feared, even in their ordinary streets.

As the crowds began to clear in a fashion too disciplined to be natural, a great flurry of dust clouded the town, persuading all the rest to leave, and whether it was because of the bothersome wind or the sight of golden hair whirling about in the open, a great number retreated.

They wanted him to be spotted, Legolas quickly realized— marked, as he was, an invader of their domain. It occurred to him now that the red flag had called the people to duty.

Legolas ambled to a halt, suddenly aware of a new movement along the back roads to his right. His eyes widened as he gazed through spaces between wandering bodies. The tips of jagged bronze were distinct in the light. The crests of helmets worn by a small, advancing group rose above the passing bodies around him, and the sight of underlying red garments fluttering beneath sections of bronze scales put him on greater guard.

Whether they intended to approach him tactfully, or resort to cornering him in their own arena, he could not know. But something told him not to stop. Could he so easily trust a notoriously war-like culture to settle matters in peace? He highly doubted the thought.

He walked on at an even pace, looking to his left to catch a passing glimpse of another armored quartet rounding a corner from the back roads. His eyes narrowed ahead severely— another distraction to toy with his patience. The few people who were left dispersing in the streets made careful efforts to avoid the Elven wanderer. His path was clear.

A small group of young, under-dressed women flashed enticing smiles his way as they passed— the first individuals he came upon who did not attempt to disregard him. But they were not the only ones to get uncomfortably close to him as they passed. Two dark-haired, sallow-skinned fellows in simple attire seemed to be heading urgently in his direction. At the very last minute, their paces slowed. Legolas stared into their dark eyes as he proceeded, brandishing his fearlessness. Once the men realized at the last minute the Elf was not intending to stop, they were split from their side-by-side position as Legolas cut through them— but one of the two, tall and middle-aged, locked a cold and venomous gaze upon Legolas as the Elf passed, then acknowledged someone ahead; someone trailing a mere few feet behind the Elf.

Footsteps slowed and hushed words were exchanged. Legolas walked on solidly, for near ahead was an intersection in the road, a convenient means of escaping the scrutiny of his distrustful followers. However, he knew the possibility of some confrontation was still very likely to occur before he could reach this crossroad.

But there was no interruption of any kind. The road ahead of him was clear save for some passing civilians who continued to demonstrate a great lack of friendliness. With this, it took a mere moment to reach his point of retreat.

His thoughts were suddenly filled with the recurring image of the deep red signaling banner that still hailed in the sky like a vicious wound. It was a sight that would not leave him, for to him it was a message of waiting peril ahead. The road would long be unsafe…

Legolas randomly chose the east-road of the intersection. Prior to breaking away from the leering eyes at his back, he examined the scene across his shoulder. Three armor-clad soldiers were strenuously marching the distance outside the settlement toward the guard towers, while the unadorned yet authoritative men he had passed earlier conversed severely with the remaining soldiers. Only one face of these men would linger long in his mind, and with particular clarity now that the man had suddenly retrieved a long scimitar and clutched it eagerly in his dark, ashen hands.

Legolas felt no anxiety in the need to hide from every unfamiliar face, but was instead feeling more driven with determination. He presumed there was no help to be sought in the outer edge of the town— his destination lied beyond the walls of the barrack ahead. He would reach it with greater haste and greater stealth than they could anticipate, and if it meant spilling the blood of any who dared to look for trouble, he would not hesitate.

* * *

The sun was half set and already they had claimed every street. Great numbers of armor-clad men as well as cleverly disguised soldiers had quickly amassed from the inner walls within minutes of being dispatched. Now, all of them sought for the lone Elf who was wandering in their territory. 

Clinging to the rough brick wall of his refuge, Legolas saw all from the first-floor roof of the two-story dwelling he was perched upon. His grey jerkin served well to conceal him alongside the dark wall, and he melted into the shadows. Countless men were hunting him, all of them bearing arms and ambling casually along every road, but there was only one he concentrated on; only one man that had unconsciously led him thus far to the barrack ahead…only one man who would get him inside it.

The scimitar flickered in the sun's glare as the man swiveled away unknowingly from Legolas' watchful eyes, approached the main road, and proceeded onward. Raising himself to his feet from his crouched position, Legolas leapt from the edge of the roof and landed soundlessly against a single-leveled building, guiding himself with his hand against the smooth, rounded tiles as he shambled toward the next reachable rooftop.

The men were confused— every one of them. They had, without doubt, ensured every path to be clear at least twice, yet finding naught but empty streets had quickly caused them frustration and disorientation. Legolas observed the armored soldier who had just appeared below him, watching as the man sharply wheeled about in every direction, polearm warily close as though waiting to be waylaid, before he cursed under his breath in a strange language unheard of to Legolas and changed direction down another street.

Close ahead, Legolas' target conversed with another visibly irritated sentinel.

"Third rounds," the man told the guard indifferently, his voice rolling with his strong, eccentric accent. At times Legolas could not even hope to discern any words, regardless of how close he came to the man.

An ill-tempered grunt followed. "But he is not here."

"You'll listen to your Captain," the man whispered coldly, flaunting his title. "He is here. Now get out of my face and do your job right."

It took no more than that. No others stopped him to complain, all of them now too busy searching the town a third time to spare a plea in his presence. With the walls of the barracks closing in quicker than Legolas had anticipated, he realized the critical part of his task would soon follow.

Built with rough stone blocks comparable to the rest of the dwellings in the town, the walls were quite high. Legolas perched himself upon the highest rooftop as close to the barrack as he could manage. The dark man had halted before a great wooden gateway and was waiting for one of its doors to open far enough for his passage. Legolas waited carefully. Atop the great wall sauntered an armed guard, alone but very alertly on duty. On each of the four corners of these walls was built a sturdy watchtower rising not much taller than the walls themselves. This was no heavily armed fortress he faced, and for that he was grateful. All he needed was a clear path to take a leap and then climb whatever distance he wouldn't be able to reach by jumping.

The gate on his far right rumbled on its great hinges, and the walking sentinel atop the walls passed through the dark archway into the nearest tower. The way was clear. Legolas backed far from the edge of the roof for a running start, sprinted softly across the cedar shades, and took flight.

He only made it far enough for his one arm to hug the wall's railing. He lithely climbed a small distance of the rough stone until his free hand could also seize hold of the ledge, and from there he pulled the rest of his body over the rough frame. His light boots landed with a sharp sigh against the stone as they reached solid foundation, and he immediately darted to his right, moving stealthily along the wall in the direction of the gate. The watch on the barrack was not heavy within and so he passed along the edge of the stronghold and onto the nearest roof without detection.

Atop the dwelling's high peak, he gazed over the fantastic sight before him. The wide, central street was lined with greatly elongated structures; narrow windows sent forth sparks while others emitted the unmistakable clash of steel upon steel— blacksmith shops in great numbers. Storehouses were gathered in clusters in the midst of all the buildings and houses, with numerous horse and mule-drawn carts parked in front. Other structures were filled with lively music and laughter, all buildings having uniquely narrow windows of a stylized craft gleaming brightly with golden light from within. The vicinity within the walls was nowhere near colossal, yet there were enough buildings contained inside to support a fair-sized and flourishing community.

Situated passed the halfway mark of the enclosed area and directly in line with the main road stood a lone structure bearing obvious importance. Steep-roofed and with a single-storey floor plan, it was of a wide, U-shaped construction, and since the foundation of the dwelling was raised, the entire front of the structure was lined with three flights of flat, broad steps. The two thick branches of the building that extended behind were adjoined with yet another dividing wall. All was blocked from this point, and though the walls were much smaller than those surrounding this central area, they did not look easy to climb. It was also very clearly, even from afar, more heavily guarded. All Legolas could see beyond those walls were the peaks of more roofs and some flickering lights.

A familiar voice brought him back to his focused task. His targeted man strode the open street and was being accompanied by an armored guard.

"Barid, milord, the streets are bare. Do we have your permission to go door-to-door? The people may have information."

_Barid_. At last, Legolas had a name for him. He looked on as his man came to an abrupt halt and muttered close to the soldier's ear.

"This business is ours—and _Hers—_ not the people's."

"But surely many of them have already seen the Elf on the streets. If we just—"

"No." There was a length of silence. Their voices grew much quieter, and Legolas was forced to abandon the roof and take to the shadows of the back streets in order to get closer and listen better to the conversation. "No…Let no one leave these streets unless they have been searched and questioned. He must have crawled his way deep into this town to have passed our guard already…" Barid sent the man off with a nod and an aggressive pat on the shoulder and proceeded down the dimly lit street. He had the walk of a very confident man, his strides long and leisurely— as though there was nothing that could stand in his way or strike him down. Perhaps it was being enclosed in the heavy walls that provided him with a feeling of security— this confidence would be his first mistake.

Legolas watched Barid with a keen eye from every crack between structures until the man had turned from the main road and treaded between buildings. Legolas found his way through the shadows, using the nearby echo of feet on stone to guide him and keep him on his intended trail until the time was right.

The way was clear, for even with the small amount of light in the sky, the streets remained calm where he was. He rounded a corner and brushed against a wall, listening for the footsteps. They were the only noise in the still air, and they approached briskly. As Legolas intended, he was several steps ahead of Barid.

He reached for a knife from the scabbard at his back, the sharp and narrow blade brushing against its containment as it was slowly drawn. Legolas' target strode passed, and the Elf emerged at Barid's heels and seized him in mid-step, the Elven blade held close against the stubble flesh of the man's throat.

Though visibly startled, Barid cleared his throat and lifted his chin indignantly. It seemed he knew the identity of his captor. "Only cowards strike from behind."

With his free hand, Legolas gruffly snatched the scimitar from the man's left grasp.

"Are you going to cut me down with my own weapon?" Barid inquired, his voice devoid of fear.

Legolas lowered the Elvish blade from Barid's throat and sheathed it. He transferred the scimitar into his fighting hand and observed it before him. "Whether it is my weapon or yours I use, it does not matter… You'd be dead all the same." The man's weapon possessed a curved blade of steel with bronze completing the sword in a unique guard, handgrip, and pommel. The scimitar was a heavy weapon and Barid looked to be a formidable wielder, for though he was of equal height to Legolas he was visibly hardier in build. "You will have no use for this. I do not intend to kill unless I absolutely must."

The man swiveled around to face his assailant and indifferently tightened the scrap of red material that bound his black, shoulder-length hair. He made a face, furrowing his dark brows. "I don't care what your intentions are."

"I do not ask for you to care, just to obey," Legolas replied with a frown. He already despised this Barid. "You seem to know your way around here well enough for my use. Cooperation is all I can demand of you, seeing as there is far too much work needed on your temperament than I can afford with my time…" He eyed the man unkindly and stepped aside, gesturing toward a shadowy back road with the man's weapon. "Walk."

* * *

They had not ambled long through the chill darkness that hung between the buildings before a fit of rambunctious laughter and applause burst from an open window of a lengthy structure sitting alongside the back road they trekked. Golden light shone from every narrow window of this building, lighting up the empty street. 

Legolas acknowledged Barid with a stern face, but the man was no fool. He kept quiet and, without much concern in any case, continued on submissively.

Legolas peered through the windows as he walked, catching sight of a large gathering of dark-haired men surrounding two young individuals wobbling drunkenly on a table. The air reeked of strong liquor. One of the men guzzled down a mug, his lack of perception causing him to spill most of it down his hairless face and neck, while the other took advantage of the perfect opportunity to knock down his opponent. In an instant, as Legolas saw through the final window that he passed, they toppled off the table in a groaning heap, liquor showering the roaring spectators all around them.

He gazed ahead with a raised brow, trying to decide what might be an appropriate reaction for what he'd seen. Ahead of him, Barid shook with light laughter. Certainly it was easy for Legolas to spare a simple grin after witnessing such drunken stupidity, but quickly after he invested some thought into it. He was learning more about the notorious warlords with every step he took, and he trusted it would all serve to his advantage in the end, whenever that was to come.

Barid slowed and waved his hand down a road on his right. Legolas came to stand at his side and surveyed the scene ahead. The main road was in view at the end of their path. "We must go this way," Barid explained to him. "Around the corner is where you will find your help."

"A stable?" Legolas inquired expectantly, gesturing Barid forward.

"Not exactly a stable, but someone who can grant you access to one."

At the thought of stepping into the open where threatening eyes could be lingering, Legolas gazed far passed his shoulder and in the direction they had just come. He sought for the billowing red flag above the roofs, wondering if it still stood, but could not see it beyond the high walls that divided the town.

"Why are there none of your men searching _these_ streets?"

"We do not expect anyone to scale our walls," Barid replied dryly.

Legolas made a puzzled face and grinned at the statement. _Scaling walls…?_ "Well, if that's the word…" He sighed, recalling a thought he wanted to confirm. "The red flag… it was raised for me, was it not?"

"Yes," Barid answered. "You are the reason for the warning. Everyone has been called to seek out any wanderer that does not look like the rest of us and identify them to my men." He turned his head sideways so that he acknowledged Legolas from the corner of his eye. "You're expected."

Legolas narrowed his eyes to the ground as he thought hard. How could they have known he was coming? There had been no sight of any scout along the way and no one around could have triggered his whereabouts… unless he had been deceived.

The thought of Eithne or her father lying to him seemed too wrong to believe, and so he refused to. They had both truly cared for him.

Who else, then, knew of his coming?

Barid suddenly spoke aloud, waking Legolas from his concentration. "That is how we go about communicating here. No heralds, just flags to bear urgent messages to the people. As for the horn, we use that for expected outsiders… or in your case, unwelcome ones." Barid brushed a dangling piece of his thick, straight hair from his face as he approached the corner— the entrance to the main road. "There's a disadvantage to everything."

Barid scanned left and right, and he and Legolas exited the back street. No longer confined to shadows and thick air, Legolas noticed a great change upon the open streets after having been parted from the open for so long. A distinct blue-gray light had replaced the warm colors of the setting sun and the air had grown cooler. Barid regarded the Elf with a sharp gesture of his head.

As Legolas followed in suit, a crisp breeze cooled his skin. It brought a peaceful feeling to him, and he wished there was time to sit and take advantage of something he had not felt in many days.

The area was quiet despite a backdrop of music, laughter, and rowdy cheers from randomly scattered buildings down the way. In the distance, a dog barked wildly into the darkening night. Down the main street, Barid was leading Legolas further into the heart of the town and, it seemed, nearer to the prestigious-looking structure that brought an immediate end to the central road.

"You spoke of dealing with outsiders earlier," Legolas began purely out of curiosity. "That would suggest you do business with traders, then. Who is there to trade with in these parts?"

"Anyone that comes to us seeking honest business— and the business _only_ comes to us. Rarely do we ever need to venture across the plains for supplies. We have men coming from Rhûn, the far south, desperate stragglers from the west, the Old Settler—"

"Who?" Legolas cut in.

Barid halted and turned to Legolas. He was growing annoyed with all the questions, and it showed on his broad, sallow face. "The old man that lives on the outskirts of the western forest with his two daughters. Unfriendly and miserable thing he is— he doesn't divulge his name or that of his family's, or where he comes from— but he gets good business and he isn't a crook." Barid stretched his arms behind his back and rested his hands on the edge of his belt. "But it never hurts to know who these lot are, you know. There are a lot of rewards for the heads of some runaways, former members of the revolts that plagued this city years ago. All that is needed is outside information to tell us he's one of them, but otherwise there is no reason for us to lose our business with the man by acting out of suspicion and raiding his barricade, looting his storehouse, and stealing away that nice older daughter of his." He bit the end of his tongue with wickedness in his dark eyes. He raised his brows briefly. "You like women?"

Legolas swallowed, recalling again the fair face of Eithne, her father, their peaceful refuge behind their makeshift walls, little Ayan playing in the lush grass that only grew in the flourishing sanctuary they called home… He was suddenly very worried for them. "Take me where I need to go," he demanded sternly.

Barid grimaced, shook his head, and reluctantly started forward again. Somewhat to Legolas' surprise, the flat, wide steps of the prestigious building stood before their feet.

Legolas remembered the appearance of the structure from when he had first set eyes upon it in the distance. The stone blocks of its outer walls were evenly carved and smoothly surfaced, and the stone stairway was just as well kept. Straight ahead and sitting in the shadow cast by the overhanging roof was one entrance; a single, dark-stained wooden door with a strong, solid bronze handle crafted into a sharp, triangular design. Many windows lined the front of the dwelling, and most of them were either covered by wooden shutters painted black or left open with gossamer drapes riffling gently in the faintest of breezes. It had a neat and very well-cared look to it.

Barid had already climbed the low flight of stairs by the time Legolas returned to his senses. "I'll be announcing you before you enter," he stated indifferently, and passed between two of the numerous wood pillars before escaping through the wide doorway.

Legolas waited anxiously in the openness of the street. The wind had suddenly picked up from the east, howling as it fought against the outer walls with only a mild draft escaping the stone barrier to give some life to the streets. He lifted his eyes to the sky and was suddenly drawn to the east where a collection of menacing clouds moved west with haste. At their rate of travel, he was certain they would bring another terrible windstorm. He had to make certain Turgon was safe in his care before then.

After a short time Barid sauntered down the steps, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He, too, took the initiative of observing the sky while he approached Legolas, and his eyes narrowed at the clouds with resent as he shook his head. After he descended the stairs, it seemed as though he was going to walk right passed the Elf without any acknowledgement. But he ambled to a halt at Legolas' side, rubbing his rough chin with his callused hand as he was once again drawn to the skies in the east. "She'll see you."

Feeling Barid had done his part, Legolas held the man's scimitar aloft, pommel facing upwards for its rightful owner to reclaim.

Barid snatched it without a moment's delay and watched as Legolas advanced up the stairway. He grinned challengingly. "You're not afraid I'll use it against you in the time it takes you to climb those stairs?"

The Elf peered over his shoulder as he ascended, bearing a small smile and an amused flicker in his eye. "Not in the least, Barid."

"I never told you my name," the man replied in a dark voice, his smirk fading as his forehead creased in bewilderment.

Legolas continued without a word until the cold shadow of the overhanging roof touched his face. When he turned around for the last time, Barid's lips had again twitched into the faintest of smirks, knowing and very unsettling.

"I'll be seeing you again soon, _golug_." Barid swiveled around and departed from the street.

Legolas' feet froze on the stone foundation for a long while, the smile upon his own lips having vanished immediately after hearing the word. _Golug_… Barid had spoken to him in the tongue of the Dark Lands. Even if Legolas had not known any word of the language or had never heard its harshness uttered in his presence, the brief shiver it sent over his skin would have done just as well to indicate a mere breath of evil had just been cast upon him. Many times in his homeland he had heard Orcs spit and sneer that very word to him and his comrades in disdain. _Elf_, it meant, and no more than that, but it was only used with the desire to see a troubled reaction. Barid's intention could not have been any different.

As Legolas passed from stone and onto the smooth oak flooring of the dwelling's interior, the air grew warm but the light around him remained dim. Immediately there was a strong aroma of foreign spices filling his nose, a product of some culinary creation being prepared in a nearby room. He entered the small square space, empty except for a crackling fireplace at the far wall and three chairs situated in the center of the floor: two of these stood side by side while the third sat across from them, bearing a small polished table at its side. The dark, wood-paneled walls were bare but for two narrow, shutter-covered windows on either side of the fireplace, and the floor was impeccably clean. Despite looking dull and sterile, the room had a calming effect on him, and he felt increasingly tempted to sit and gather his thoughts in the glow of the warm fire.

Soft footsteps approached on his right. He turned sharply to meet the long and gracefully defined bronze face of a dark haired, middle-aged woman almost equal in height to him. She was drying her hands with a thick crocheted towel.

Legolas hastily dipped his head low in greeting. The slender woman's deep, auburn eyes lit up as her voluptuous lips curved into a smile of delight and wonderment. "Goodness," she breathed, her hands falling to her sides. When he lifted his gaze to her, her glowing smile widened even further until it creased the outer corners of her eyes. Somehow, he knew that same smile… "I was not expecting you to arrive so soon."

Her elation puzzled him. It seemed there was nothing for him to do but stand silently on the spot while she beamed at him with twinkling eyes, and his body language proved his discomfort.

Towel in hand, she clasped her fingers together cheerfully. "Welcome. My name is Sedda." In her voice there was only a slight trace of an eastern accent - very discreet in comparison to that of Barid. "This is my home and my town in which you stand. That is why you have been brought to me, if you are still unaware."

Legolas bit his cheek. Would he ever get to where he needed to be? "I was told you have horses to loan."

"Is _that_ how Barid got you here?" Sedda frowned, but she was quite visibly amused and tried to hide it. "He is only dependable to whomever he serves and toward a cause that would cost him his neck if he failed. I apologize on his behalf, I did not ask him to deceive you, but under my orders you _were_ to be brought here." Seeing the worried glint in the Elf's eyes, she quickly assured him, "But do not fret, I do have horses, and I do intend to help you. In the meantime, you are most welcome here. But—" Her attention slipped past his shoulder. "— I'm afraid such weapons are not."

He considered the request with uncertainty. She was utterly mad to think he was submissive enough to surrender his weapons to a stranger. With that, he did not show any acknowledgement of her demand.

Sedda's face became grave. "You hesitate over a matter of diplomacy? Do you think I intend to _use_ that bow against you? And as for those knives— I could not even throw one at you from where I stand." She pursed her thick lips and continued with deliberate slowness, "Let me assure you, you're quite safe leaving them with me. Rest your toys on that chair and we will get you settled. Or you may eat first— I've prepared enough dinner for three and I _do_ expect you to eat while you sit under my roof." She winked, despite the rest of her face remaining stern. "I hope you like to eat."

Legolas pressed his jaw and exhaled heavily. All the interruptions coming his way were beginning to test his limits. "I was told you could help me. Can you, or not?"

She seemed unfazed by his assertiveness. "I can, yes. My horses are stabled across the road on the left side of the house. But I will not leave you to go off on your own."

"I'm no thief."

Her forehead wrinkled as she raised her dark brows and flashed him a half-grin. "I never said you were! Have you not seen those clouds in the distance? A storm is coming. The wind has already picked up. You will need easy access in and out of this town as well as assistance along the plains when the storm does come." Slightly rigid, she moved across the room, tossing her crocheted towel onto a chair as she strode to the front door. "I will gather some men to take you where you are headed. Leave your weapons on a seat there and follow me… unless you actually think you can continue your task without my help?" She halted at the doorway and eyed him with condescending doubt, knowing very well he would follow.

And with no less reservation, he did.

* * *

Sedda's stable housed a great number of impressive horses, all of them highly valued judging by the security that was constantly maintained within and around the perimeter of the stable. 

Sedda had sent a messenger to seek out a particular group of men within the city and left Legolas with the generously offered duty of choosing the horse he wished to ride. All the while a tall and ebony-skinned man kept watch at the entrance of the stable, leaning up casually against the doorway while puffing blue smoke from a pipe and making visible the thick bladed scimitar dangling from his belt. He was undoubtedly a man of Harad descent.

Legolas paced the three long corridors of the stable in the glow of torches, convincing the plainly dressed sentinel he was actually concentrating on his selection when his thoughts were instead elsewhere.

As he walked along at a leisurely pace, he observed every horse with interest. It was evident they had all sat idly for some time, for though they were very strong, they also looked very well-fed and were immaculately groomed. What need was there for so many horses if they were so rarely put to use? To Legolas, the great array of beasts seemed more like a _collection_ than anything else; beautiful, well-cared for horses at constant rest… did they have any use?

But suddenly there were a number of thoughts that occurred to him. The town was surrounded by a barren landscape— therefore there were certainly farms to tend. As had been mentioned before, the business of trade came to the town— they would need no horses to be dragged across distant lands with precious cargo. He could only muster two possibilities: the horses were either used as merchandise in trade... or for an army's cavalry.

But there was no war… yet. Or perhaps that was precisely the town's mentality. However, horses without trained riders would be useless to hand off to an army, and a country such as Rhûn bearing a strong reputation for its excellent cavalry would know as much. Where, then, were the riders… _within_ the town? There was something very wrong and unsettling about the thought. He never suspected the town of any business but trade— mustering an army in a small settlement, in the middle of nowhere, was absurd… wasn't it?

Suddenly loud voices stirred the silence outside and forced him out of thought. A number of shadowy shapes drifted passed the narrow windows lining the stone walls of the stable, and Legolas strode to the wide door to meet those who approached.

Seven men entered the building, none of them so much as acknowledging the sentinel who was visibly intimidated by their presence. Five were of Easterling descent, one of Harad, and one who looked to be a mix of the two. There were clean shaven heads and some that bore thick, black, straight hair as long as Legolas', but what they all had alike were tall, narrow builds and broad, bony faces set with steely eyes. As they caught sight of the Elf approaching from the left, they silenced their conversations and examined him with a blatant lack of kindness.

After a length of silence, one of the men nudged a fellow at his side and they all immediately dispersed down each corridor to claim their horses. The stable was quickly filled with a stir of activity as horses were saddled and escorted out of their stalls. All the men conversed in the Common Speech, but when more than two eyes fell upon Legolas, very brief words were uttered in the harsh and mysterious tongue he only heard spoken once in the town… a language that seemed to perfectly suit the accent heard among the townspeople.

"Oi— pretty-boy!" one of the men jeered to Legolas from inside a stall at the end of the corridor. "You'll be needing a horse, I think!"

Legolas glanced randomly to his left. The first stall that caught his eye housed a beautiful and noble mount— a russet brown mare with a gentle face— peering out from her stall. He reached out his hand and stroked her muzzle, indicating his choice.

A second fellow grunted as he dressed himself in another layer of garments, looking well prepared for the perilous venture that soon awaited them. "She's a vivacious one." He smirked to the others and bellowed, "Loose like our women!"

The corridor rang with great cheers from all the men in range. Legolas quickly distracted himself with untying the horse, hoping to conceal the spark of resentment in his eyes. It seemed with every moment, there was something new to feed his fear. He prayed again Niélawen was safe…

There was far too much on his mind— too many worries running through his head all at once. For the time, he could only think of Turgon. Afterwards, there would be time to hope Niélawen had not befallen some terrible fate he could only envision in his darkest thoughts. He hoped she would know to fight back if she had to…

When all was prepared, the seven men rode their horses from the stable, caring little if the Elf mingled amongst them or trailed behind— so long as he did not attempt to lead. Every one of them looked at him strangely as he handled the dark mare without a saddle, but they made no comment to him. The small party halted before the steps of Sedda's dwelling at the end of the main road, where those who were not fully dressed for the oncoming storm could use their last opportunity to do so.

Every man was attired in many layers of light materials with a thin scarf wrapped around each head, meant to cover the eyes when blowing dust threatened to blind them. For the moment, they were drawn back, covering everything but their dark eyes. In his weather-beaten Elven garbs and nothing more, Legolas knew the men were laughing beneath the drapes that bound their faces.

A distant sound of rustling wind and dry earth against stone filled the virtually noiseless air. A great gust followed, whistling furiously between structures. Legolas and those whose backs stood against the oncoming noise turned in their saddles. A light brown cloud seeped through the dark streets and flowed into the openness of the main road. The men covered their eyes and turned their faces from the filthy wind. Their horses shifted below them, and only Legolas' dainty mare remained composed.

A weakness among the men had, at last, been revealed to him. They grew silent and whispered to each other from then on, quite visibly apprehensive.

"What are you all waiting for? Those horses won't ride themselves into an oncoming storm." Sedda gracefully descended the stairs from the entrance of her dwelling, bearing a pile of garments in her arms. She grinned. "They need fools like you to lead them."

Immediately, the woman's words brightened their spirits, and they chuckled appreciatively. Sedda sauntered toward Legolas, mounted bareback on his loaned horse, and she smiled at his choice.

"Paku is a fine ride for one of the Fair Folk. Her stamina is good— she will take you far at her greatest pace." Sedda scratched the mare's nose, curiously acknowledging her saddle-free back from the corner of her eye. But she made no comment on her thoughts. Then she pursed her lips and gazed up at Legolas, speaking quietly. "I do not know what drives you to do this, to very well risk your safety… and I will not ask now. I only hope that you will accept such tokens from me so that you have a decent chance of returning."

She lifted the garments that were folded neatly in her arms. Legolas reached out and dipped his head in thanks as he received them. Among these materials was a black scarf to cover his face, and so unflawed was its texture, color, and intricate gold embroidering, he was certain it had rarely been touched, if at all, since its making. There were also two maroon cloaks, one that was a sleeveless tunic which easily slipped over his head, and another that was thicker, long-sleeved, and had a bulky hood to conceal his golden head. Completing the ensemble was a sash and a pair of thick maroon gloves. Legolas clenched his teeth briefly, for despite Sedda's thoughtfulness in providing for him, he was only short an array of bronze armor from looking the part of an Easterling soldier.

Unbeknownst to Legolas, all of the men surrounding him gazed on with surprise and awe as he received the gifts from the revered woman.

Sedda leaned in close, stroking Paku's brown mane. "I wish greatly for you to return, for there are great matters at hand that will certainly be of interest to you." Her auburn eyes were wide and earnest. "You must come back alive, edhel." Her thick, loosely waved hair swayed against her back as she turned on her heels and climbed the broad stairs to her house, diminishing into the shadows within.

As Legolas rode through the streets alongside the search company, donning the layers of quality eastern materials, the building winds against his body were the least of his concerns. Still, he draped the black scarf over the lower half of his face, though he was the last of the company to do so. Wandering eyes from the cracks of partly open doors followed them as they passed along the street, until the outskirts had been reached and the brown cloud many miles to the east could be seen devouring the horizon.

With a great holler from a leader up front, the horses moved from their graceful canters to a vigorous gallop, the wind both aiding their ride north-west as well as working against them in the attempt to maintain their direction.

Legolas peered over his shoulder countless times as Paku flew across the plains, battling with great strength the periodic gusts that beat against the right side of her elegant figure. Legolas drove her forward, and she cut through the gaps between the other horses until she was in lead of the company. There, much to Legolas' surprise, the men let him stay.

* * *

The sky had fully darkened, not only because of the diminishing light but also from the thick dust that clouded the air. Their going was slow— the fastest pace they ever maintained was a weak trot— but it gave the company the ability to communicate amongst each other, despite having low-hanging heads to divert their eyes from the haphazard dirt particles. 

The wind blew hard, and it never relented for longer than a few seconds. Legolas listened intently to all the life around him as Paku trotted strongly near the head of the line, now somewhat occupied by the grey-speckled mount that had joined their company.

Turgon had found only meager shelter in a wilting bush of dying grass and trees of stunted stature near to where he had been left, and it was there they found him. Only now could Legolas really see what toll the great journey had taken on Turgon. He looked less hardy than he had always been, and as he scuttled along his head hung low and his limbs quivered with each step. Legolas looked on with difficulty as he guided his companion by the loose end of the outer garment he had discarded in order to wrap about the horse's eyes. He stroked Turgon often and spoke to him in Elvish so that he would find some comfort in the sound of it. Of course, Paku was no less tender, and it seemed she knew without indication from Legolas when Turgon fell behind and needed for his guides to slow down.

Even as the wind tore at the men's garments and sent sharp pricks against their exposed skin, there was much discussion throughout the company. Legolas quickly realized they were a well-spoken bunch, obviously educated in what appeared to be a wide range of subjects. He found himself automatically drawn to their conversations, and listened intently for a long while.

"…The shipments will make it to town before the noon hour tomorrow. Word has it we are receiving a large one."

"Ahh, sounds like preparations are being made." A few of the men exchanged rather eager glances. "War is brewing."

"Then we better make the best of tomorrow night!" cried a different voice. The rest chuckled and nodded in agreement.

"Agh— Adriag has already helped himself. I found him boasting early this morning after I saw his evening appointment rush out at dawn." The man who spoke raised a brow and regarded those around him. "She was very pretty. Never seen her in our parts, mind you…"

"The aggressive man always wins… Foreign or not, it sounds like the women are learning at last."

* * *

The last torchlight in the stable was beginning to die, but he was not yet ready to leave Turgon's side. Now washed and well fed, the horse's large body was strewn across a hay bed within a stall designated to him and no others. Legolas leaned his head against the wall of the enclosure, rubbing his dirt-caked hands idly as Turgon's breaths began to slow with oncoming sleep. Outside, the howl of the storm gradually dissipated into a fierce breath throughout the streets. 

The relative peace within the stable was suddenly disturbed by the grinding of an opening door and some approaching footsteps along the corridor. Legolas lifted his head in perfect timing as a man peered over the stall door, looking relieved to have finally found the Elf. He opened the gate.

"Sedda calls for you."

Legolas licked the corner of his mouth, feeling the grossly rough texture of dirt against his tongue. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Drawing his hood over his head, he ensured Turgon remained sleeping as he departed from the stallion's side.

"The storm is diminishing," the man informed Legolas before they exited the stable, but as they passed through the wide doorway of the structure a great wind beat against them and forced them to dash across the road without delay. Legolas climbed the broad steps to Sedda's door where the messenger parted from him, likely journeying home to call it a night.

Legolas crossed from the cold night air into the warmth of Sedda's dwelling, but all was as dark within just as it was outdoors. The light in the fireplace had diminished long ago, and only a pale glow lingered in the room at his right. He drew back his hood and passed through the archway, the scent of herbs even stronger than it had been hours earlier.

A low, square table sat in the center of the room with four welcoming seats along each side. There was a three-tiered pyramid-like structure as a centerpiece, and on each level was a small candle— only the four on the second level were lit. Two sets of plates and utensils had been assembled at the far corner of the table. As Legolas proceeded further into the small space, he noticed a second doorway leading to a conjoining room at the wall furthest away from him, where a shadow moved busily across the floor.

He ran his hands along the material which covered the seat nearest to him. "I received your message," he said carefully, so as not to alarm her.

Sedda emerged from the kitchen and lifted her brows in surprise, smiling slightly. "I did not even hear you enter!" She disappeared behind the wall again. "The food is not yet ready. You have plenty of time to wash before dinner."

"Dinner?"

Her face peered out briefly, looking puzzled. "Of course."

Legolas raised a brow. "I see," he quietly replied after a short pause.

Sedda frowned at his reaction, laying a hand on her hip. "You also have a room to stay in, if that happens to surprise you as well!" She eyed his dusty grey jerkin with distaste, turning up her nose to a smell Legolas assumed was of horses. "You have no where else to rest but the _stable_."

"The stable is—"

"Ah, don't tell me, I'm sure I already know your answer to that. After all, I doubt you would care to sleep much in any case… right?" She smirked smugly. "You need not answer, I _know_ I am right. Which is fortunate for the both of us. There is much to discuss this night. But first, you must bathe. You're full of the plain's filth and I will not have any of it at my table." She snapped her fingers severely to the hand that rested upon the chair. "Touch _nothing_ until you're clean."

Legolas withdrew his hands from the back of the cushioned seat and turned away rigidly, gladly exiting into the darkness without a word.

"Down the hall straight ahead," she called from the kitchen. "Fifth door on your left."

Legolas walked into the entrance hall and entered the corridor Sedda had directed him to. As he ventured down the narrow space filled with doors along the expanse of its left wall, he noticed a pair at the very end of the corridor. They had a look of importance— it was quite effortless to assume it was the room of Sedda. And as he came to stand before the fifth passage along the left wall, he realized there was only one door separating his room from hers.

The dwelling was not a large one, so it did not surprise him to find a very small room behind the door before him. The floor was of the same smooth, spotless oak surface that covered the expanse of the house, while the walls were covered with elegant wooden panels stained black and lit by two individual torches set in bronze cages on opposite walls. Two narrow windows were positioned at the far wall, both tightly sealed from the outside with black shudders and adorned inside by silky indigo drapes that billowed against the glass with even the slightest shift in the air. To his right was an attractive chair with a number of spare quilts and blankets folded in a neat stack upon its seat; on his left was a low-lying bed framed with a solid, dark oak frame and covered by deep red sheets; in the far left corner was an age-worn porcelain tub, and right beside it was an empty bronze basin and a matching ewer filled with steaming water— beneath the basin sat what looked to be a clean change of clothing.

His attention was suddenly drawn back to the bed and the slight lumps beneath the scarlet sheets. Three shapes were barely visible outside the bed covers— the hilts of his knives, the dark tip of his bow, and an edge of his quiver, all carefully veiled yet visible enough for the eyes of an Elf.

Was this really the woman he had heard to be loved like a god— the woman a society clearly dominated by men accepted as their ruler? Whether or not he was dealing with a woman worthy of fear, the courteous preparations made on a room all his own seemed to put aside some of the doubts he had of her… but only some. Clearly, she was different— much different than he would have expected from an Easterling— yet his instincts still warned him of something dangerously amiss.

* * *

In due time the storm had quieted altogether, and the night was clear beyond the pane of glass that separated Legolas and the small courtyard outside. As he fitted his arm into the last, heavy black sleeve of his borrowed shirt, he curiously studied the backyard from the only window in the hallway. 

Dry, lifeless bushes and wilted flower stalks lined the three outer walls of the turned-in dwelling, the neglect of the formerly flourishing garden leaking over the neat barrier of pebbles and onto the smooth, stone paved surface. He looked to the left where there stood a small structure in the center of a stone patch, clearly assembled with great care. Unlike every structure he'd seen in the town, it was not made of stone blocks, but rather of wood beams stained black or painted different shades of red and indigo with an array of bronze chimes dangling from overhanging beams. There was no doubt in his mind that what he saw was a place of worship, a shrine of some sort—despite it looking just as neglected as the garden surrounding it.

As he gathered his damp hair in his hands, his eyes caught sight of a thick stone barrier concealed behind a line of wilting trees at the rear of the small sanctuary. His curiosity was immediately diverted passed the limits of the window frame. Clear in view was the innermost wall he had wondered about many times before, now only a very short walk away from where he stood. He could even make out the profile of a fully-armored man pacing along the top of the highest wall in the town, his silhouette and tall weapon faintly illuminated by some light source below.

Soft footsteps approached the hallway and he tore his gaze away from the window, starting down the length of the hall and meeting Sedda just as she passed through the archway. Her dark eyes lit up in surprise as he emerged before her unexpectedly.

She laughed aloud, gripping her stomach with alarm. She gave a shake of her head. "You tread so lightly, edhel!" Still chuckling, she looked him over approvingly before offering something to draw back his hair, unraveling a piece of thin fabric from the end of her own long black braid. All the while, it seemed his deep gaze had fallen upon her face, automatically drawn to her familiar smile once again. "Come— dinner is waiting, and I am eager to talk." She turned and led the way back toward the dining quarters. She walked across the smooth floor with a regal stride that seemed to flatter her elegant, statuesque figure, and just like Legolas, her feet were undressed as she glided across the floor.

As they passed in and out of the entrance hall, Legolas' attention moved to one of the two windows located on either side of the fireplace, feeling the urge for another glimpse of the walled division.

But Sedda brought him into the dining room without delay, where the plates had been generously filled and the candles had been dimmed to a relaxing tone. In the far corner of the table they were situated, and out of respect Legolas waited until Sedda had taken her seat before he took his own.

With a growing desire to eat, he studied the thick helping of meat covered in spices, a pile of strange vegetables he had never seen before bathing in a golden sauce, and several other small portions he could not hope to identify. The entire dish emitted a very strong, spicy aroma he was not used to in his native food, but it was altogether appetizing. Sitting at the top left corner of each of their plates was a wine glass generously filled with red wine as rich as the black of evening.

Sedda shifted forward along her seat, observing the food and rearranging her place setting with the hand that did not lie studiously in her lap. "I hope you can find it in you to… trust me a little more, now that I have proven my intentions to you."

Legolas swallowed and slowly reached for his goblet of wine. He gazed at the dark, swishing liquid with absent eyes. "Why am I here? Why do you insist on keeping me in your care?"

"I feel it's my obligation."

"Why?" he asked, sharper than he had intended.

Her eyes narrowed for a brief moment. "Why are you interrogating me?"

He raised the heavy glass to his lips and engulfed a generous amount of wine before setting the goblet down upon the table. "I do not trust you," he said in a low voice.

Sedda clenched her teeth momentarily before she murmured, "You are as difficult as I thought you would be." She took her cutlery in her slender hands and began to eat, and all the while Legolas knew her mind was bustling with thoughts she was aching to reveal.

All the while as they ate she remained this way. She fought hard to maintain her studious disposition, but as the meal progressed, Legolas watched the change in her eyes and face. She wanted desperately to speak, and it seemed she was even growing _angry_, though he could not understand why she held back…

The food, at least, was enough to take his mind off an impending dispute. His first taste of the dressed meat sent a violent, burning sensation through his lungs, and he fought back a fit of coughs until the burning in his head subsided. He soon came to realize that every portion of his meal was almost spicy beyond toleration. But he was immediately grateful for the wine— the thick red substance soothed the fire in his mouth and throat and allowed him to bear the remainder of his meal with a little more ease.

Once it was clear they were both satisfied, Sedda wiped the corners of her mouth and acknowledged Legolas' clean plate with raised brows. "You ate… _everything_."

Legolas swallowed his fourth glass of wine, pursing his lips as he lowered the glass. "It was quite good," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. Realizing this with some embarrassment, he averted his eyes, cleared his throat, and drank some more.

Sedda forced back a smile before her face grew solemn again. She raised her elbows upon the table and crossed her slender fingers together, pressing them to her mouth. "I want to know your name," she stated softly but firmly. "I cannot simply call you 'edhel' from now on…"

"Can't you?"

She shut her eyes out of annoyance. "Enough of the stubbornness."

He held a strong gaze. "Stubbornness is not the issue. Such business is my own, and I do not think it necessary for me to divulge any of it."

Her eyes narrowed. "What have you to hide…?"

"Everything."

She managed another slight smile. "Edhel, you have much less to hide from me than you think." She lowered her hands from her face and moved nearer to the light. "There is something in my face that sparks your interest. I've seen the reminiscent look on yours many times already," she breathed, eagerness suddenly alight in her auburn eyes. But in them, too, was an all-knowing gaze that bore through him with an uncanny depth. "Whom do you see?"

What she spoke did not confuse Legolas, it downright shocked him.

It was as though she had been reading his eyes since the first moment he took in her image… her smile. Every time she beamed, a forlorn feeling washed over him, stealing away his thoughts to distant memories he feared losing…

And in an instant, he lost his breath.

When he finally mustered the ability to speak, nothing came out but a breath of air. He swallowed the dryness from his mouth, and softly murmured, "Niélawen."

His low voice did not reach Sedda, but the change that came over his face was enough of an indication to her that he understood perfectly. She lowered her head and rearranged the cutlery on her plate. "We have the best interest in mind for one person." Her glimmering eyes peered up from her dark brows. "Why do you think that is?"

"You're one of her kin."

"Her mother."

He swallowed and dipped his head into the shadows. He was not sure what to think or what to feel. One half of him was elated— the woman before him was proof to Niélawen that she was not as alone as she thought; an advantage that was not only on her side, but on his as well.

However, his other half sparked the great anger that had been all the while hiding just at the surface. At last he could demand why the child had been left wounded and deserted without having to curse at the empty sky and hear no answer to his plea. No… he could have answers now. He balled his hands into fists upon the table.

But she spoke before he could. "You know she is here, just as I do. We are not enemies, edhel…you and I…" Her eyes pleaded with him. She leaned over the table with desperation in her face. "She needs help from both of us."

His profile darkened as his face tensed nervously. _Help_? He knew the decision Niélawen had made put her at great risk…but perhaps her need was far graver than he dared imagine. "What do you mean?"

Sedda drew in a breath and rose from her seat, looking doubtful. "Are you willing to sacrifice an evening of sleep?"

Legolas climbed to his feet— his mind had been set long ago. He had not endured so much or come so far to hesitate over Niélawen's well being. He had an obligation to her, having unconsciously vowed to himself long ago he would finish what he had started, no matter where that led him… "Tell me what I must know."

Relief washed over her and she shut her eyes, overcome by a moment of liberation. When she opened them to Legolas, she smiled eagerly, and nodded. Then, lowering her voice to a mere whisper, her gaze slipped passed him and her eyes glistened over with what looked to be the first sign of tears. She chewed at the soft edges of her trembling fingers as she breathed with quivering breaths. "My Naida…" She regarded him briefly— no kinder light had he ever seen in the woman's eyes. "No longer shall she be lost…"


End file.
